


wonderwall

by scumfuck



Category: IT 2017
Genre: Angst ?, Eddie Kaspbrak - Freeform, High School AU, It 2017 fic, M/M, Mike Hanlon - Freeform, Reddie, References to past trauma, Richie Tozier - Freeform, Stanlon - Freeform, Teen Angst, Trigger warning: mentions of rape, angsty, but i sure do hope you like this, but yeah! i'll add tags as i go., fic about Mike!!, mike hanlon is amazing, no pennywise, not really sure where it's going yet, please comment and like or whatever you do here idk i'm still new, possibly, side reddie, stan uris - Freeform, stan uris and mike hanlon - Freeform, u know how it is, very very small mentions, we love a handsome king, yo FUCK him
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-21
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2019-03-22 00:27:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 22,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13752384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scumfuck/pseuds/scumfuck
Summary: The Hanlons stop homeschooling their grandson Mike when he's in sophomore year, leaving him to finish his last two years of high school in Derry's public one. He's not thrilled, per say, but he has a couple things going for him: a loud boy named Richie, the AV club, and the quiet Jewish boy who sits next to him in almost every class he takes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> let me know if u like this so far'm

"Michael!" His grandmom's voice rung unpleasantly loud through his bedroom door. He sat up straight and pushed back the thin sheet before climbing out. His feet hit hardwood floors with a thump.

"Coming!"

Mike pulled on a clean white shirt and hopped into his father's old jeans. The summer had finally gifted him his growthspurt; He was around 5'8 and not expecting to grow any taller. The white socks were itchy in the bottom of his feet as he jogged down the stairs.

The smell of eggs and bacon wafted through the hall, and he clambered his way into the kitchen. His grandfather was seated at the checkered tablecloth, intently reading Derry's local newspaper. His grandma used to argue that they were much closer to the neighboring town that he shouldn't even bother with Derry any longer, but the Hanlons were a stubborn family.

"Good mornin', son," he called over the paper, taking a swig from his black coffee. Mike smiled at him before kissing his grandmother on the cheek.

"Good morning." He gathered a plate and utensils for himself and set them on the table. "Smells good."

"Eggs were fresh!" Grandma yelled. "First batch of the day!" Grandpa chuckled.

Mike sighed out a half-hearted laugh. His grandfather set down his newspaper and gave him a strong gaze.

"Ready for your first day at public school, then?" Mike was anticipating the question since he woke up- well, since they both told him he wouldn't be getting homeschooled anymore. He understood, of course he understood. He did everything they told him to; It was his job to not one up his elders. It's how his father told him to treat others.

"I guess so."

There was a scoff from his grandma as she slid an egg onto his plate. His grandfather straightened in his seat.

"You are ready." He spoke without a question. It was determined and intimidated his grandson.

"I'm ready, sir," Mike tried his best to remain tall in his seat.

His grandfather nodded, ending their conversation. Mike released the breath he'd sucked his stomach in with and tugged on a piece of bacon. He stared out of the open window as the willow tree swayed in the breeze. He dreaded the day ahead of him. He knew absolutely none of the kids at Derry's high school, but he could bet his bottom dollar all of them knew him.

The next thing he saw was his grandma's fingers snapping in front of his face. He blinked and turned to her. Her lips were pursed and she was pointing a chipped fingernail at the clock on the wall.

"Bus stops at the well in ten minutes," she stated in a matter-of-fact way. "You better get over there before you're late."

He shoved a last forkful of his egg into his mouth and ran out of his seat at the table. He unceremoniously pulled on his sneakers and grabbed his backpack. The backpack was new. He'd never had one, and neither did his parents, so he was given money to go into town and buy himself one. It was made of a dark blue cloth, and the bottom was a brown suede. It had to be one of his favorite possessions, truthfully.

He barreled down the stairs and waved a quick goodbye to his grandparents before making his way out the door. You would have thought he was eagerly on his way to the bus stop, but he was really just scared of losing a seat to someone else.

No one else was at his bus stop. It was especially for him. The Mike Hanlon bus stop. All his.

Which did save him a couple minutes of socializing with people he didn't know.

The yellow school bus rushed down his street in a hurry, as if it were late for a meeting and only running on five hours of sleep and half a cup of coffee. It came to a halting stop in front of his spot at the well, and the doors reeled open squeakily. The bus driver gave Mike half a glance as he climbed up the steps of the bus.

It was his first time ever being on a school bus, and it was terrifying already. The seats were made of red faux leather, the floor was littered with trash and chewed up gum, and the students upon it were screaming like banshees. Mike cautiously stepped down the aisle, and stood in front of the first open seat he found. It was occupied by a backpack, but it was towards the front of the bus, so he tried anyway.

The kid sitting there had dark curly hair, and on top of that sat giant headphones. They were connected to an old Walkman, which lay beside his X-Men comic. Mike tapped on his shoulder.

"'Scuse me?" he asked timidly. The boy looked up from his comic and up at Mike. At first he looked surprised, but soon, a grin spread over his features. He had an obvious tooth gap and magnifying glasses that were connected by a sad looking piece of tape at the bridge.

"Hiya!" He quickly pulled his backpack out of Mike's way and patted the seat next to him. "Come, come!"

Mike sat down with a nervous smile. "Sorry, I didn't want to bother with finding an empty seat towards the back," he said. The boy pulled one half of his headphones off of his ear and grinned wide again.

"Totally cool, man," he replied, brushing it off. "I'm Richie, by the way. You're part of the Hanlons, right? Dude, I totally remember when you guys were in the paper- I felt so fucking bad, dude, really. It was a real tragedy."

Just as Mike assumed, people knew about him. He tried to smile and thank Richie for his condolences, but he already felt sick to his stomach. He hadn't even gotten to school yet.

"Yeah, I'm Mike." He stared at Richie's Walkman. "What are you listening to?" He changed the subject.

Richie seemed equally excited to share. "Dude, this super cool new band. Nirvana. So cool. Randy from the record store told me about them, and he knows like every single band in the world, I swear- he got me out of listening to, like, fuckin' New Kids On The Block. Thank God for Randy. You ever heard of them? Nah, probably not." Mike tried to comprehend everything he was saying, and his eyebrows furrowed. "They're pretty new," Richie continued. He reached up and pulled off his headset. "This song is called Territorial Pissings- Isn't that the best title ever? Here, listen."

He handed Mike the headphones and Mike placed them over his ears. The raspy voice pounded against his eardrums. It scared him at first, as the singer wasn't exactly singing, but screaming, but he sunk into the sound easily afterwards. Richie was giving him an expectant look, as if he had just discovered the cure to cancer and was depending on Mike to approve it.

"Wow," Mike sighed, and handed the headphones back to Richie.

"Awesome, right? I've been listening to them nonstop. Richie began to pack up his comic books, still gushing about the band. Mike tried to catch up as he described the lead singer as if it was a documentary about him.

They filed out of the bus and Richie was still talking. Mike wondered if he always did this, and if he ever ran out of breath. He stood and stared at the high school with a horrified gaze in his eyes. Richie looked at him and elbowed him lightly.

"Hey bud, it'll be okay. Just like, don't get in too much trouble," Richie laughed. He looked ahead and adjusted his glasses before laughing.

Ahead of them, next to a bike rack, was a curly haired boy with a Kippah perched on his head. His arms were crossed and he wore a distilled expression.

"Uh-oh! Momma's mad!" He pointed at him and cackled. He glanced at Mike once more before beginning to jog alway. "See you later, farm boy! Gotta satisfy Stanthony before I get spanked!"

Mike smiled and Richie jogged up to the irritated kid, as he yelled about how he was his "favorite Jew in the whole wide world," and that he was sorry he was late.

Mike was left in the sea of high schoolers he didn't know, in front of the high school he didn't know. He breathed in hot air once more before walking with a strong foot up to the entrance, beginning his first journey of high school.

It took Mike quite a bit to find the main office. The secretary gave him the ugliest look he'd ever seen. He tried not to label it as that (disrespecting elders?), but it kept sticking in his brain. She led him to the principal.

The principal was a heavy set white guy with a receding hairline and beady eyes. He gave Mike a map of the school and his locker number, and dismissed him quickly. Mike simply nodded and thanked him, praying that he'd find his way to first period without too much trouble.

The hallways were almost empty when he exited his office. He thought they were until he passed by a hallway and heard the slap of textbooks against the linoleum floors. It snapped his attention to them.

A short boy was crouched on the ground, trying desperately to gather science textbooks in his skinny arms. Mike hesitated before calling down the corridor.

"Need help?"

The boy's head snapped up in utter shock, his eyes wide and fearful. He calmed a bit after he saw Mike, a hand pressed over his chest as he heaved in air.

"Please?" he murmured in a hopeful voice. If Mike could place a word onto him, it'd be timid. Or maybe he wouldn't label him with only one word. He was more than that. Mike shook the thought out. He took more than half of the books out of the boy's hands. It seemed like he was half the size of Mike.

"Where are these going?" he asked.

"Uh. Ms. Jefferson's classroom. She's got science first period," he responded. He was only holding one textbook in his hand, and Mike nodded along to his answer.

He bit his lip as he decided on where he was going next. Then he turned back to the shorter boy. "Where is that?"

The boy slapped his hand against his face and screwed up his eyes. "Right! You're new, shit. Sorry. Uh, follow me."

He led Mike up a stairwell and down a vacant hallway. The classroom paused when him and the other entered. He placed the textbooks on a nearby desk as the teacher stared at him with an icy glare.

"Mike Hanlon?" The teacher spoke out. Possibly every single eye in the class was on him. When he turned back, the boy he'd helped was just about to leave, the same wide-eyed expression on his face.

"That's me," Mike mumbled. He realized he was mumbling and he straightened his posture, trying to keep his grandfather's strong silhouette in his body.

"While I... Appreciate your help, you're late." Mike glanced at the paper schedule in his hand. Believe it or not, Ms Jefferson's class was his first class of the day.

"I'm sorry, Miss Jefferson-"

"It's Ms Jefferson," she clarified. A few kids in the class snickered.

"I'm very sorry, Ms Jefferson," he replied. Her glare stayed the same as she straightened her blazer.

She pointed towards the back of the class. "Please take a seat."

Mike nodded again and slung his backpack tighter around his shoulder before making way to the back of the class. The empty seat was next to the boy he'd seen with Richie before- the Jewish one. He smiled as he sat down, but the boy did nothing. He simply scooted his seat a tad farther away from Mike's and stared straight ahead.

Mike said nothing as the teacher began her lesson. She introduced the upcoming course with a liberated amount of intimidation towards her students, and Mike was terrified. He never did well at home with science, so how was he going to succeed here? He had no idea.

The next two periods were English. Mike didn't recognize anyone, and sat alone in the front.

Right before lunch was math. The Jewish boy was back. It seemed that not many people sat next to him, except for Mike. He tried to make small talk as he settled his backpack next to him.

"Looks like we're sitting next to each other again, huh?"

The Jewish boy looked at him sideways, then nodded. It was a sort of punctuation. A sign that Mike should shut up and stop talking to him.

When the class started, he wasn't sure what to make of it. It was supposed to be one of the advanced classes. Pre-calculus. Yeah, he was surprised he got into it, too. His grandma told him it was his mother who excelled at math. The thought always made him smile.

"I presume you've all brought your calculators, correct?" the teacher, Mr Pinscher, asked. Mike froze as the class began to pull out their calculators. They were huge, from what he could see. Giant Texas Instrument ones. And he was so stupid.

How could he forget a calculator?

His grandpa was going to kill him. He spent so much money already on his backpack, and now a calculator? Mike was screwed.

"If you don't have them, for whatever reason, then that's your first priority." This was directed at Mike. "I don't care how much money it costs you, you need a calculator for this class."

The Jewish boy was staring at him. He could feel it. Everyone was staring at him. For the second time today. Not the greatest feeling ever.

He stared down at his desk with embarrassment.

Mr Pinscher went on about Pre-Calculus. He didn't look up until he heard a tap on his desk. He glanced up and there was a calculator on his desk. It was big and grey. When he looked over to the Jewish boy, he was focused on the teacher. Mike smiled and took the calculator.

Towards the end of class, when students were packing up to leave, he tried to give it back. The boy looked at him with almost irritated eyes and shook his head.

"Keep it. It's yours," he muttered. It seemed harsh, but the undertone was careful and knowing.

"You're sure?"

The boy nodded his head, and left the room, leaving Mike to stare at the top of his kippah as he walked out.

* * *

 

Mike was lost in the middle of a cafeteria. A high school cafeteria. He had absolutely no idea where to go, who to sit with, nothing.

He held his brown paper bag in his hands and stuck his chin out with the pride he had left, and circled the giant room.

There were jocks. Cheerleaders. Mean girls. Stoners. Mathletes. And then he came to the table at the very far back corner, all tucked away. The face that he saw had the familiar wide eyes he'd helped before.

Then he heard his name called.

"Mike Hanlon!" It was Richie. Mike spun to face him. "Fancy seeing you on this side of the tracks." He leaned in close to the wide-eyed boy, who glared at him. "Some might call it the _wrong_ side of the tracks..."

It felt very staged. Like Richie was a theatre actor and Mike was his subject.

"But alas!" Richie threw his hands in the air and stood up, walking over to Mike in an ostentatious fashion. "You've come to visit, and we greatly appreciate it. Mike, meet the Losers. Losers, meet Mike."

Mike glanced around the table at the boys' faces. The Jewish boy was with them. And the hallway boy. And two other faces he'd never seen.

"That's Billy, Ben, Stan," he pointed to the Jewish boy and spoke his name in a dreamy voice, "and the one and only Edward Kaspbrak." Richie let go of Mike's shoulder and instead looped his arms around Eddie's from behind, hugging him with the same tooth gapped grin spread across his features.

Mike sat next to Eddie. The table was circular, and right across from him was Billy, who had auburn hair and had to be his height or taller. Not as tall as Richie. Richie seemed to be very long.

"Wuh-we were juh-just filling out fuh-forms f-for the AV cluh-club," Bill directed towards Mike, and looked down at his sandwich.

"What's the AV club?" Mike asked. Bill looked up, and his eyes caught with Mike's. They were a dark blue, and questioning. Like an _are you dumb?_ question. But less rude. 

"The AV club is for nerds, that's what it is," Richie called out across the table. Bill threw a french fry at him, which was just taken by Richie and happily shoved in his mouth. Mike noticed Richie didn't have a lunch.

"The audio/visual club. They do a lot of videography and stuff," Eddie answered for him. Mike smiled down at him. Eddie was nibbling at a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Next to him was a Purell bottle, one of the big ones.

"Cool," Mike said. "I've never seen a video camera before."

Bill's eyebrows were now threaded together. "F-Fuh-Fuh-"

Richie cut him off. "For real?" He slid easily into the empty seat next to Mike. "Dude, your haystack lifestyle must fuckin' suck, man."

Mike laughed. Then, he looked over Bill's shoulder at a redheaded girl heading their way.

"Who's she?" he asked, nodding his chin in her direction. Ben and Bill both craned their necks to see her, and both came back red faced.

"Buh-buh-buh-"

"Beverly Marsh," Ben sighed dreamily.

Richie laughed. "The three of them are in this hardcore love triangle, they jerk off like every night to her." He turned around in his seat and hugged himself, before making fake kissing noises and squirming as if he was making out with a ghost. "Oh-oh _Beverly_! _Mmmmm_!"

"Wow, happy to see me, Tozier?" Richie stopped his movements at her voice. Mike hadn't even noticed she arrived at their table. Richie slowly turned around.

"When am I not, Bevvy?" Richie said coolly.

She winked a bright blue eye at him before settling down at the table. Mike was surprised she did so, too. She must've noticed his presence, because she was eyeing him subtly.

"Who's the new kid?"

Richie replied for her. "Mike Hanlon. Totally rad guy. You'll love him." 

Mike felt his chest tighten at the words. No one had ever spoken like that about him before. Not since his parents were alive and praised him, gushing about him to aunts and uncles. 

"Hi Mike," Beverly greeted, drawling out his name a bit. He waved at her. 

The rest of the table went quiet, before Richie told a joke, and then half the table laughed and the other half was offended. Mike was trying to get used to the way they acted towards each other. It was very odd, the relationship between different people at the small table. It made Mike want to watch them all day.

As the lunch time was nearing its end, Mike let his eyes gaze over the table. On his way around, they locked with Stan's. Mike almost gasped, but when they did, Stan let the smallest smile Mike's ever seen grace his lips. It left soon after when Richie stole his kippah, and he grew angry. 

Mike just laughed and watched all of it happen like a movie. He felt a small tug on the sleeve of his shirt, from Eddie. He was staring at Mike's arm when Mike turned to him. "What's up?" 

Eddie swallowed. "You should join the AV club. It's not for nerds. Richie's a jerk. And you'd be a great part of it, really," he told him.

"Of course I'll join it," Mike responded, and let his lips turn upwards.

Eddie did so as well. "Cool." Then he put his hand sanitizer in his backpack. He looked at Mike again. "Cool," he repeated. "I guess we'll see you after school, then?" 

Mike nodded as Eddie stood. He fixed his hair and the collar on his polo before smiling down at Mike. 

"Yeah. I'll see you after school, Eddie." 

Eddie waved and Mike hadn't even noticed that everyone else in the cafeteria had left, too. He was alone, spare the janitors who cleaned up after their lunch, sitting at the empty lunch table. But he didn't feel empty. He felt warm. Less invisible. Normal.

He wasn't the homeschooler anymore.


	2. connection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mike joins the AV club.

Eddie miraculously found Mike's locker after school. It wasn't close to anyone's, because he was only given it that morning.

"Carlos is really cool," Eddie said, referring to the AV club's leader. "He's young. Moved here from Boston."

Mike put the textbooks he'd gotten in his classes on the shelf in his locker, which was otherwise empty. Eddie took him to a room near the auditorium. There were huge cameras and tripods set up around it, and lights that shone from the corners of the room.

"Who's this?" a cheery, smooth voice called out behind one of the cameras. When he stepped into Mike's view, Mike almost gasped. He had to be as short as Eddie. It must've been Carlos.

"Mike," Eddie answered, nudging Mike to shake his hand. Mike did so, and Carlos grinned wide. It was a nice smile, Mike thought.

"I'm Carlos, it's so awesome to meet you," he shook Mike's hand, clasping the other over it so it was enveloped by his. "It's gonna be a pretty short meeting today, nothing huge."

"I've never seen a video camera before," Mike blurted, because they were awfully close to one and he was itching to see how it worked.

Carlos seemed to smile even wider. It reminded him of Richie, except less of a sneer. "C'mere! We'll show you how to use them."

He pulled Mike behind one, handling the camera carefully and placing it in Mike's strong hands. He then told Mike how to turn it on, and where the lens and lens caps were.

"Okay, now record," he ordered. Mike did so. When he looked through the viewfinder, it was pointed towards where Richie and Stan had walked in. Stan's lips were pursed and with every step he took, the closer he got to the camera.

Carlos laughed a little beside him as he zoomed in out of focus on Stan's face. "Already found a muse?" he teased. 

Mike didn't reply, but jumped when the screen was ambushed by Richie's front teeth in a huge smile. Mike removed himself from the camera as Richie pissed himself of laughter. He cautiously handed it back to Carlos, and shoved his hands awkwardly in his back pockets.

"Good first day, Mikey?" Rich asked then, leaning his elbow on Stan's shoulder. Stan ducked out of it, rolling his eyes to the back of his head. 

Mike shrugged. He didn't really know if he had a good day or not. People kept staring at him every time he moved, and the teachers weren't peachy. Of course, he excused all of it with the fact that everyone probably stared at the new kid. 

It kept coming back that the "new kid" wasn't often black, though. Or part of the Hanlons, at least. 

"Tomorrow'll be better," Stan said, eyeing Mike carefully as he stood embarrassingly still. 

"Yeah!" Richie agreed, reaching out to pinch Mike's cheek. "You're a charmer, Mikey-boy! Everyone will love you!" 

Mike felt his chest warm up again. 

Carlos clapped, just as Bill entered the room; he got all of their attention. When Mike looked around, he realized there wasn't anyone but Eddie, Richie, Stan, Bill, and himself standing in the room. 

"This year is going to be great! Principal Bannon gave us enough funds from last year to buy two new camcorders!" Carlos held up the one in his hand, queuing a tiny applause from them. Most of the noise came from Richie, who was leaning all of his weight on Eddie's poor body, and whooping loudly.

"Are we gonna be doing more than the school announcements now?" Stan asked. 

"That we are, Stan!" Carlos exclaimed. "Now, I'm not confirming anything yet... But, a little birdy told me that we might be able to get the affirmative to shoot a short film!" 

Richie almost fell over as he sprung to action. "Wait, for real? Like, an actual film?" 

Bill laughed and clung onto the camera around his neck, his eyes wide in disbelief. Carlos nodded.

"Don't tell anyone though! It's our little secret," he winked and Eddie started to jump up and down. 

"Finally!" 

Carlos put his hands up high enough for everyone to give him a group high five, including Mike. Everyone was cheering and the happiness radiated off of their faces like sunshine. It was like a not-awkward family reunion.

Mike knew his mom would have liked him being a part of something like this. That's what he thought of her, at least. She would have wanted him to make friends, and get out there. Mike was trying his hardest; he didn't know if he could survive high school as it is, let alone with friendships on top of it.

As Carlos dismissed them, he thought more about it. He realized he'd never particularly had a best friend, or many friends in the first place. Before his parents were killed, he found himself spending most of his time with his father on the farm. It was hard to remember. His entire life he'd just done things according to his surroundings, and now he had to make his own decisions. It wasn't as if he was lazy... It was just a different sort of feeling, and he had to get used to it.

Richie walked the same way as him. They were both on the east side of Derry. Of course, Mike was on the edge of town, just on the border where there were fields and the woods thickened as you went farther down the road. 

"M'sad I don't got any classes with you, though," Richie said, continuing a random sentence he was rambling on about. Mike eyed him. "Of course, I got like, all of my classes with Beverly and Bill. Which would be fine, if they weren't ogling each other like fucking rabid chimpanzees during mating season." 

Mike huffed out a hearty laugh at that. He saw Richie's amused face when he did so. Richie was rolling slowly on a skateboard, his sneakers pushing gently on the ground. Mike always wanted a skateboard. 

"Here's my stop, man," Richie said, stopping in the street and picking up the bottom of the board with a mall grip. Mike glanced up at what he assumed was Richie's house. It wasn't what he expected, but he wasn't necessarily surprised at the exterior of it. It was a small house, narrow, and painted a dark red. The paint chipped off the sides. There was half a fence bordering the front yard, but it seemed too weathered to be considered one anymore. Mike just smiled.

"I'll see you tomorrow, clodhopper," Richie called out, waving his hand as he left Mike alone for the second time that day. Mike waved back.

"Bye, Richie!" he yelled back, and set on his way home. 

It was around four, and the sun was still shining bright. When he arrived back home, his grandfather was sitting on the porch, drinking beer. Mike simply walked past him with a firm nod and entered the house. 

"Mike, baby?" His grandma called out.

"That's me."

She turned the corner from the kitchen, wrinkles twisting into a smile. "How was public school?" she asked as she tucked the kitchen towel in her apron pocket.

"It wasn't terrible," Mike admitted, "I joined the AV club." 

"The what?" She squinted her eyes.

Mike grabbed an apple from the bowl on the counter. "The AV club. They do things with cameras and sound systems." 

His grandmother looked skeptical. "No sports teams? Football? Your father played football, you know." 

Mike knew. His father went to college for football. When he graduated, he got an agriculture degree. It didn't do him much use in the first place, because he ended up working on the farm anyway.

"Yes, I know." 

She pursed her lips, her expression forgiving. "Don't tell your grandfather that you've joined that, y'hear me? He'll make all y'all quit if he had to." 

Mike understood. "Yes, ma'am." 

She smiled, patting Mike's cheek before turning back to the dinner she was making. Mike took his backpack up to his room and laid on the bed, staring up at the ceiling thoughtfully.

He stood again, before traveling back downstairs and outside. He walked past his grandpa on the porch and down to the willow tree outside. When he was far enough out of his grandfathers line of vision, he sat down, and craned his neck up at the sky. 

"Hi mom," he whispered, staring at a branch in the willow tree where a bird and its family nested. "It's Mike." 

He took a deep breath in.

"I met some people at school today. I don't know if they like me or not. I've kept quiet, I'm not sure why. I think people would like me more if I had more character. Dad always wanted me to be all manly like that, and always have something to say. I only like saying things when I need to." 

Mike craned his neck and leaned his face on his hand.

"I remember once me and him were in the woods taking a walk and I heard a dove cry, and I told him the dove sounded lonely. He said that I should've been quiet, because my voice scared off the dove. I felt really bad about that.

"I think of him whenever I heard a bird and it sounds lonely. I still tell him I love him sometimes. Not as often as you. Tell him I'm sorry I do that. I don't mean to."

Mike leaned his skull against the tree. He felt tears pricking at his eyes. 

"I love both of you very much. I miss you a lot," he mumbled, drifting off into the evening sunlight. He felt the rays on his skin as he closed his eyes, and a single tear fell down his cheek.


	3. all that and a bag of chips

Eddie pushed Richie forcefully. He tumbled backwards. "Would you fucking stop?" he nearly screamed.

  
Mike had never seen him this angry. Sure, Eddie had a short temper around Richie, but over the weeks he's come to know him, he's never gotten this bad. His face was red and the hair that Richie had noogied was standing up.

  
Richie's eyes widened.

  
"You're always constantly on me! I'm not a fucking coat rack, Richie!" Eddie yelled at him. Mike watched as he did so. Richie seemed to shrink back at the yelling, so much that he didn't even have his everlasting smile on his face.

  
"Sorry," he mumbled, and straightened his glasses, setting up his tripod on a separate part of the room to get a shot of the announcements. Eddie huffed and crossed his arms, then let them hang again. He rubbed at his eyes and jaw, eyes flicking around so he wouldn't cry.

They met Mike's in the process.

  
Mike thought he would have been the only one there that early, but he was mistaken. He wondered how early the two got to school normally and if they'd come together on announcement days.

  
"Hey, Mike," Eddie sighed, and his tone seemed guilty and defeated.

  
Mike greeted the two, setting his backpack near the door. There was an awkward silence in the room as Richie pretended to clean the lens of the camera he was on, and Eddie picked at his nails nervously.

  
"Um." Mike cleared his throat. He walked fully into the room, a notebook clutched in his hand. "So, I was thinking of something, maybe, when we do our short film?"

  
"If we do our short film," Richie intervened. Eddie tried his hardest not to glare at him, but Mike smiled.

  
"I made a storyboard and everything," Mike continued, opening up his notebook. "It's about a girl that everyone thinks is really mean, but is actually nice. And only the guy can see how beautiful she is on the inside. I'm still figuring out the end," he said. "I wanted to see your opinions."

  
Eddie read the words in his notebook, and ran his fingers over the drawings of scenes Mike had scrawled out. He hadn't even noticed that Richie was craning his neck over his shoulder to read along.

  
"Wow, looks like we got ourselves a new Steven Spielberg, eh?" Richie threw an arm around Mike's shoulders. It was around this time when Stan and Bill walked in, along with Carlos, who was mumbling about running late.

  
Mike shut his notebook and put it back in his bag. When he turned around, Richie seemed to be completely alone. He isolated himself from the rest of the club, sitting on a stool next to the third tripod, resting his chin in his hand.

  
Stan and Carlos were conversing quietly and Eddie and Bill were trying to turn on the junkiest camera they had.

  
Mike stood and brushed imaginary dust off his clothes. Stan caught his eye, but looked away quickly. Mike sighed quietly and waited patiently for the morning announcement kids to come through the door.

The ones who did the announcements were the two sexiest people in the school, Richie said. Greta Keene and Justin Amos. Richie told him that they were at the top of the food chain. The first ones to lose their virginity, and to each other. Mike told him that he didn't think Greta was very pretty, but Richie had retorted with, "It doesn't matter if she's pretty or not- she has nice tits, and that's all that anyone cares about." Mike had simply smiled and nodded.

They were always late. He assumed maybe they made out in Justin's car beforehand, and that was why Greta always looked like she came out of an 80's Playboy magazine every announcement morning. They were 25 minutes late this time.

"Where's the script?" Greta called out, her manicured hand pressing against her forehead.

Stan quickly placed it on the desk they sat at, a copy for each of them. She gave him an overly fake smile and read over the poorly written script.

"Ready, Greta?" Carlos asked, standing next to the first camera, his hand hovering over the record button.

Greta rolled her eyes and nodded. "Ready," she replied. Justin just shot a white teethed grin at Carlos as his answer. He seemed like an athlete. The kind of smile Mike's father would wear in old pictures of his college days.

"One, two, three, and... Rolling!" Carlos snapped his fingers, and Justin and Greta stood straight and faced the middle camera.

"Good morning Derry High!" Justin greeted.

"Happy Monday!" Greta drawled out.

"This week is Tech Week for those theatre kids! Be sure to see their showing of _Macbeth Did It!_ this weekend at seven!"Justin turned to his co-host.

"Also, be sure to study for those finals!" Greta warned and waggled her finger at the camera. "And seniors, your ACT test preps are creeping up on you!"

Justin nodded. "Of course! Don't forget to apply to those colleges!" Greta glanced at him, clearly bothered, but kept speaking off of the script. When they wrapped up, she stood quickly and grabbed her purse, leaving the room and swaying as she did so. Mike continued to think that she might have had a hangover or something, because she was acting really weird. Before leaving, though, she turned back to the club, a sleazy sort of smile on her awkwardly applied lipstick.

"Hey, AV nerds." Everyone whipped their heads around at her. Her smirk grew have the size of her face. "I got somethin' at my house going this Friday."

The entire room was silent besides Carlos going over something with Justin.

She stared at them as if they were stupid and rolled her eyes again. " _So_ ," she continued, "Everybody in the whole grade is going. Y'all can come, too, y'know."

Richie sat up straight and leaned his weight against the camera coolly. "We'll be there, sweet cheeks."

Greta shot him a glare. "Okay." She started to leave again, but spun back around quickly. "You know where I live, right?"

All of them, spare Mike and Stan, nodded.

"Cool," she said, but it didn't sound like she thought it was cool. "See you there." She finally left with a wink fluttering off a mascaraed eye.  

It was silent for a long moment, before Richie broke it. "Well, fuck me! We just got invited to a party!" 

Bill blinked at him, but Eddie simply stared at the ground. It seemed the five were awfully confused and dumbfounded that something like that could happen to them. 

"Party?" Carlos entered the conversation at last. Justin had left out of a back door, Mike noticed. Carlos put a hand over his chest. "My boys are growing up so fast."  

"Nothing too important, Carlos," Stan assured. "They'll be safe. As long as Eddie keeps Richie occupied everything will be alright."

Carlos laughed and gave Stan a warm look. "I already know you all will be as responsible as can be. I have no worries at all about you guys, really."

Richie was then jumping, ecstatic with the idea that he was invited to a party. Mike simply watched him as he bounced over to them, beaming. It differed a lot from what his previous emotion was. He guessed he'd forgotten about his happening with Eddie earlier in the morning. 

"Are you gonna go, Mike?" Eddie asked. His eyes were wide and questioning. Mike blinked down at him. 

"I don't know. I, uh. I might have to work on the farm this weekend," he stammered. Richie snickered. 

"There's our good boy!" He slapped his hand on Mike's shoulder.

"Juh-just tell yuh-your parents y-you're going tuh-to someone's huh-house t-to study," Bill suggested, slinging his bag over is shoulder as the five started to leave. 

"Yeah!" Richie agreed. Mike felt like shrinking down into the ground. 

"I'm sure they'll be cool with it," Eddie nodded along to the proposition. 

Stan grabbed his hand suddenly,  and Mike felt the hallway spinning almost. He stood his ground strongly and tried to just stare ahead, but he could hear his heart beating in his brain and it hurt. 

His vision went blurry but he could tell the four were stopped, probably staring at him like he was insane. Then, he felt Stan rub the side of his arm. He squeezed his hand and leant up on his tiptoes to calmly talk to Mike. 

"It's okay," he had said, his voice smoother than usual. "You're okay. Breathe. Focus on my hand."

Mike stared at his hand, which was small and pale in his. The two colors looked beautiful together, he thought. He never looked much at his own skin, but when it was with Stan's, it looked so right. He didn't stop staring at it. Until it was pulled away. 

When he glanced up, Richie's eyes were comically huge, but they were guilty and apologetic. So were Eddie's and Bill's. Stan was standing straight and reserved, his hands clamped together in front of him awkwardly.

"I'm fine," Mike mumbled, and continued to walk, passing the four in the way. 

Eddie caught up to him first. 

"I'm really sorry, Mike, that was so terrible of us, really, we're really fucking stupid sometimes, and-" 

"So fucking stupid!" Richie added on. Mike was trying to block them out. Eddie continued to ramble anxious apologies, the words spilling out of his mouth, seemingly endless. Mike stopped in his tracks for the second time and turned to face them all. 

"Please stop." His voice was raised. They'd never heard his voice raised. But when they did, they looked scared. Bill and Eddie backed up. Stan and Richie stood together, staring at him with an almost smile on both their lips, but not enough to make him feel any better. 

Stan stepped forward and nodded for Mike to follow him. "C'mon. We're gonna be late to first period." 

Mike blinked and let himself smile at the gesture. He stood quickly behind Stan, walking briskly and leaving Richie, Eddie, and Bill alone in the hallway. 

 

 

 

 


	4. birds singing in the sycamore tree

Mike didn't know where to start. His entire afternoon consisted of trying desperately to get his grandfather to let him go to a party, which was only excused by doing twice as much farm work that weekend, then looking through his small supply of outfits in his drawers, and trying to figure out how in the world he was going to get to this random girl's house.

  
He heard from Richie that she lived on West End, but he wasn't sure what house, or what part of town West End was even on. He decided that he would find out when he got there.

  
After thinking it through, Mike concluded that no one was going to look at his outfit in the first place, so he stuck with a simple black shirt and worn jeans. Before he left the house, he snuck his father's old Ralph Lauren red jacket under his arm. When he pulled it over his shoulders, it smelled faintly of musk and dust from disuse. It was oversized on his figure. He wasn't half as muscular as his father was, really, though he tried hard to get there.

  
Of course, his grandfather wouldn't give him keys to the truck. He had to walk into town. A good two miles.

  
The sun was just setting when he got to the center of town; the clock tower next to the church read 6:30 p.m., and he was still not at his destination.

  
He sighed and glanced around. In the town square was an old woman walking her dog, slowly gliding along the walkway. Mike gingerly strided up to her, hoping she'd give him directions.

  
"Excuse me, miss?"

  
When she looked up, she jumped, startled. She even yelped.

  
Mike wasn't sure what to do, so he held his hands out. "Oh! I'm sorry!" he rushed out.

  
His sorriness seemed to make her even more worried, and she stepped back from him. Her eyes were wide and terrified, Mike wasn't sure why, and she held a hand over her heart as if it was going to kill her if she took it away. The hand clutching the dog leash shook.  
The small dog growled underneath him, biting the air and struggling against the rope tied to its neck.

  
"Please don't hurt me!" she almost screamed, in a high pitched voice. Mike was perplexed. Why would he scare her?

  
"I'm so sorry, I really am- I just, I needed directions, please?"

  
She continued to back away from him and yell louder, to no one in particular, and Mike didn't know what to do. He apologized quickly and briskly walked away, hoping he didn't cause a scene and that woman didn't report him- God, why did she start screaming? What was she so scared of? Did he have something on his face?

  
Mike was walking in no particular direction when he heard his name in a familiar voice.

  
"Mikey-Mike!"

  
Richie's arms were in the air, his windbreaker sleeves pushed up. Next to him was Stan, who looked even more unhappy than Mike felt.

  
"What's up, bud?" The two came up next to Mike and continued walking down the street. Mike followed them.

  
"I tried to get directions from an old lady and she started to scream," Mike replied.  
Stan raised his eyebrows, Richie simply laughed.

  
"Good one. Old ladies fuckin' suck anyway. I love scaring them," he chuckled, "It's like tipping cows, y'know?"

  
Mike nodded. He felt a little better, but was still uncertain of why the situation happened.

  
"Maybe she had dimensia," Stan said. "My grandpa had dimensia before he died."

  
Mike stared at him. His curls were perfectly combed together. They always were, he noticed. It reminded him of the way his mother used to comb his hair when he was young. She used oil and he remembered the first time he went to kindergarten, someone tried to touch it. He hated it when people touched his hair- it was his hair, not theirs. And no one else got their hair touched except him.

  
"You look nice," Mike blurted. Stan stiffened, even as they were walking. Mike immediately wanted to freeze, go back in time, and keep his mouth shut. Richie was snickering a bit and Mike just wanted to run away and cry or something.

  
"Thanks, Mike." Stan eyed him and maybe there was a smile on his lips but Mike couldn't really tell, because it was small.

  
Mike kept his head forward and shoved his hands in his jacket pockets. They hung low next to his hips.

  
"Is this your first party, Mike?" Richie asked next to him.

  
"Unfortunately, yes," he replied. Richie nudged his arm.

  
"Hey, it's gonna be a ton of fun. For real. The last party Greta had was amazing. I got so fuckin' stoned, dude," he raved. He stepped back and shrugged, still facing Mike. "I mean, you don't hafta do any of that if you're not comfy, obviously."

  
Stan rolled his eyes. "Yeah. Don't feel like you have to conform to Richie's inconsistent pothead lifestyle."

  
Mike grinned. Somehow Richie managed to be so cool despite his stupid reputation.

  
"I dunno, Stanny, is it better than always havin' a stick up my ass?"

  
Stan audibly gasped, but he huffed out a laugh, and looked just about ready to push Richie into the street.

  
They continued watching, Richie and Stan continued bickering as if it were as casual as Richie and Eddie's bickering. Stan was seemingly better at deadpanning comebacks, though.

  
They arrived at a house at the end of a cul de sac. It had to be one of the biggest houses Mike had ever seen. Like the mansions he saw in magazines. It was then he realized that - _Oh_ , they were in the _rich_ part of town...

  
Richie led them to the front door and confidently opened it. Mike thought maybe he should've knocked, but he could already hear the music from the front lawn, and presumed no one inside would be able to hear it anyway.

  
It was crowded all the way up to the front door when the three boys stepped inside. Mike tried to squeeze through where Richie went, but he wasn't as thin as him, and had to accidentally push people in the process.

"Sorry, uh- my bad," he repeated under his breath. When he got into the kitchen, there were less people. He felt a little less claustrophobic.

Right behind him Stan showed up, looking noticeably uncomfortable already. He perked up when he caught Mike staring at him. The half smile was back again, and Mike's ears heated up. He looked away and at the counter, where there were piles of used red Solo cups and a punch bowl.

"We can leave whenever you want to, Mike." Stan had come closer to him.

"Of- of course," Mike said.

Stan smiled and lined the edge of the granite counter top with his finger, staring down at it. "Just making sure."

The song on playing on the radio somewhere in the house changed. It was a hip hop song now. Mike couldn't know who it was by.

A group of white boys were dancing to it, though. They seemed to be really drunk. Mike was almost intimidated by them. He wondered where Richie went.

" _Californiaaaaaa, knows how to partayyyyy_!!!" He heard people scream out. It made his head rattle, and he tried to look around for a water bottle. It seemed like he was there for hours. Stan was there, but he was on the other side of the counter, talking to Bill Denbrough, who had just arrived. The sun finally set out the window, and Mike couldn't see as well.

Mike tried to wrestle through people. The first thing he saw was a staircase, so he traveled up it. He really felt bad for whoever had to clean up the mess; it went all the way upstairs! When he was on the second floor, he opened the first door he saw, hoping he could get alone.

Richie was in there. He was bent over on the bed, attached to a bong, inhaling whatever substance was in there. Weed, right? It had to be herb... But Mike didn't really know. He'd never smoked it.

There were three others lazily laying on the floor and furniture. It had to be someone's bedroom, too. He felt bad for whoever had to sleep that night with their room stunk up with marijuana.

Richie sat up and kept the smoke in his mouth for a moment before blowing it out into the already musky air. Mike watched him as he opened his eyes and was greeted with his presence in the doorway.

"Mikey!" he yelled, handing the bong to someone else and throwing his skinny arms in the air. He let them drop soon after, and it was almost as if they were made of jelly or something. Or boneless.

Mike swallowed and he realized then that his mouth went dry. He smiled shakily. "Hey, Rich. I was just- Uh- looking for the bathroom..."

A guy on the floor started to laugh at him. Mike tried to ignore him. He sounded like one of his grandpa's pigs.

Richie pushed up his glasses and stared at Mike for a moment before comprehending. "Oh! It's down the hall, I think," he mumbled.

Mike felt a tap on his shoulder. When he turned around, Stan and Eddie were behind him. Eddie gave him a small greeting and passed by him through the threshold, towards Richie. Stan looked into the room and his eyes widened a bit. He looked up at Mike and silently asked to step into the hallway again.

Mike could faintly hear Eddie scolding Richie, and Richie giggling, from the hallway when he exited the bedroom. Stan had pulled him to the end of the hallway, where there was a window leading to the backyard of the house. The window was open, and it didn't have a screen either. It reminded Mike of his house.

Stan slid over the windowsill and sat on the edge, pushing it open so they could both sit next to each other. There was a makeshift balcony just outside of it. Mike thought it was probably just for holding flowerbeds in the spring, but he let his feet dangle over it anyways. The window was surprisingly wide enough for both to fit, and Stan spoke for the first time.

"I don't think you should get caught up in that shit," he quietly said. Mike stared at his corduroy pants. They were a tan color. Stan breathed before continuing. "You're just... You're too good for that stuff, y'know? And... And once you get into it, you can't always get out."

Mike nodded and stared up at the dark sky. The stars were clear that night. They looked like freckles dotted across the sky.

"Have you ever listened to Ella Fitzgerald?" Mike asked after a while of silence. Stan looked over at him. Mike saw him shake his head through his peripheral vision.

"Who's she?"

Mike cleared his throat, and looked down at his fingers. He played with the cuff of his jacket before answering. "Jazz singer. She played this song with Louis Armstrong, and my mom used to sing it all the time. Dream a little dream of me."

"Oh," Stan murmured. "I thought Doris Day sang that?"

"She did. I dunno. I liked Ella's better." Mike licked his lips. "She reminds me of my mom."

Stan reached out and laid his hand palm up in the space between them. Mike stared at it for a second, hesitated, before holding it. It was awkward at first, but their fingers eventually intertwined, and Mike couldn't stop staring at them. Even Stan's fingernails were pale, he thought. Translucent. Like the stars in the sky. He almost laughed to himself at that, but warmly smiled instead.

"My dad used to sing the Zombies before he became the rabbi," Stan said. Mike broke into laughter, the sound bubbling over his lips. He heard Stan laugh a little too, and wished he was quiet enough to hear it in all of its glory.  
  
Mike brought his head up to properly look at him. Stan was just beaming, glowing, staring up contently. Mike subconsciously ran his thumb over the back of his bony hand, where the knuckles jutted out. Stan turned his head and glanced over at Mike.

And Mike couldn't really put into words how it all happened. Stan opened his mouth, just a little, then closed it again. And they were already so close, Mike could've closed the gap easily. He felt bad that he made Stan do it instead. The curly haired boy leaned forward, giving the slightest of assurance in his eyes that Mike saw right before he let his own eyelids flutter close. And then there was a warm press to his lips. He turned his head a bit, to properly catch the boy's lips with his own. He felt every part of his body warm at the touch. It was as if he was a lightbulb that got plugged in after years of disuse.

But it lasted much shorter than Mike wanted it to. When Stan pulled back, his eyes were wide and his features were soft.

And that's when Mike heard the screaming.

 

 

 


	5. remember the deadheads?

Well, it was more like yelling. He heard men, older men, and then screeches of teenage girls. It surprised both him and Stan. Mike could've fallen off the windowsill.

  
When he looked down to the ground, he saw the flashing blue and red lights. Stan must've noticed too. "Police," he mumbled, stunned. Then he climbed back out of the window and helped Mike out.

  
Mike was confused and scared and he was ready to panic. Stan seemed pretty calm, however. He started back down the hallway and into the room where Richie was. His nose scrunched when he opened the door, but Richie was already standing, his arms wrapped around Eddie, swaying in the thick smoke.

  
"Richie, let's go," Stan ordered. His voice hardened, and Richie hung his head over Eddie's shoulder.

  
"Oh, hey, Staniel!" Richie called out. "Fancy seeing you he-"

  
He was cut off after Stan pulled the two apart, shaking Richie's shoulders.

"Richie. We have to go. The cops are here."

  
Richie's eyes widened half the size of the moon. He mumbled curse words and glanced back and forth around the room. The others had left and it was only the four of them, Richie, Eddie, Stan and Mike.

  
Mike stared at the bong that sat on the floor. He picked it up and tried moving it to a different spot in the room. As he was hiding it under a blanket, a woman came up to the door of the bedroom. All four froze.

  
She was standing in a skimpy dress, and had the same fake blonde hair as Greta. But she was older. Maybe her mother. Next to her was a tall, bald policeman. His eyes were fixated on Mike, who was still holding the bong, but frozen on the carpet.

  
"Well, well, look what Greta brought in here..." The woman's nose scrunched up the same way Stan's did. Mike just stared back at them. When he glanced over, Richie seemed as paranoid as anyone could have been. His head was in his hands and he was biting his fingernails; his leg was bouncing and his eyes flicked all over the room.

  
Eddie stood next to Stan. They stood differently, though: Eddie seemed more curled in, as if he was about to get hurt. Stan stood tall and calm. Not unbothered, but calm.

  
"Gentlemen," the officer said. "Do you know how much trouble you're in?"

  
Mike heard Eddie gulp, and Richie mumble under his breath anxiously.  
He stood up and pressed the back of his hand to his forehead. He could get out of this. It wasn't even his fault- he didn't even smoke any of it! They couldn't arrest him if he didn't do anything, right?

* * *

Wrong. 

Before he knew it, all four were sitting at an empty kitchen table. The policeman kept glaring at Mike from across the table as he asked them about what happened and who gave them marijuana and who organized the party.

  
Stan answered most of the questions.  
Mike thought everyone else was too intimidated to say anything. Especially Richie.

  
"Was it your water pipe?" The man asked Mike. He froze.

  
"Wh-what?"

   
The cop grumbled, before repeating himself. "Was it your bong or what?"

  
Mike choked out an "Oh," and stammered a bit. The cop glanced up at the woman who brought him there, who was leaning against the counter behind them.

  
"Stoned, Shirley. These two are stoned," he concluded, pointing at Mike and Richie. He looked back down at them. "What's yer names?"

  
Stan's jaw tightened.

  
"I'm Mike Hanlon- and- and that's Richie Tozier," Mike stammered. He wanted to protest the cop's assumptions, but he wasn't allowed to act rude to authorities.

  
"Excuse me?" Stan almost raised his hand, as if they were in class. The policeman glanced down at him.

  
"What, kid?"

  
Stan straightened his back before speaking. "Mike is not under any drug influence. He was with me all night."  
The officer grimaced and his eyebrows threaded together angrily.

  
"We're gonna have to do tests in town," he replied, eyeing Mike warily. "Then we'll know for sure. Okay?"

  
Stan sat back a little and nodded, the same square jaw and irritated glint in his eyes.

* * *

  
Mike couldn't believe the night. He tried asking if he could call home, but none of the officers let him. Instead, he had to be tested for his vitals and shit along with Richie to see if he smoked weed.

  
Mike was pretty sure they knew spot on that Richie was high. He felt bad for him. He looked so paranoid the entire night, his face all pale and his eyes watery and wide like he'd just seen a ghost. He kept biting his lip, too, so bad that by the time they were done being tested his bottom lip began to bleed, right where it was chapped. No one offered him chapstick.  
At around midnight Mike saw his grandfather enter the police department. He didn't know who called him, but he came wearing dirty overalls and Birkenstocks.

  
For a moment, Mike hated himself.  
He hated that he had to be there in the first place. He hated that the police couldn't have let him go. He hated that his grandfather wore dirty clothes and sandals in town. He hated that everyone looked at him weird when he walked in.

Mike caught his eye, and boy, his grandfather was angry. The kind of silent angry, you know? Mike could see the fury in his eyes and feel the heat pooling in his stomach out of guilt. His heart seemed to twist into a knot, heavy in his chest. He wished that he would just wake up and be back on the farm. Maybe it was all a dream from the start- him going to school and everything. Maybe he's just in a really really long coma.

Grandpa spoke to the policemen and Mike couldn't hear him, but he could tell that despite the looks all the white men gave him, his grandpa remained stoic and confident. It didn't seem to phase him. Or maybe it did, but his reaction was to be as stoney as a rock.

The policeman was talking to him slowly. He nodded once, and then turned to Mike, walking over to him slowly. His expression was hard and his jaw was tight as a knot.

When he met up to where Mike was sitting, he looked down at him. Mike didn't want to meet his eyes, but he did. He had to. He probably would've gotten hit if he didn't. All his grandfather did was nod his head back, a sort of gesture that said, "Get your ass outta here. And don't say nothin' on the way out." And that's exactly what Mike did.

His grandpa drove the old pickup truck that was covered head to toe in complete filth. Dry mud. Thank god you couldn't see it much in the darkness of the middle of the night.

Half of the car ride was silent. Mike knew not to say anything.

"When your father was old enough, he went on a road trip. For the whole summer," grandpa said slowly. "Told us he and your mom were goin' with a bunch a Deadheads to see some hippies at all them festivals."

Mike's eyes closed. He didn't want to cry. He didn't. It wasn't his fault. He didn't want to cry.

"Your father got arrested when he was 20 somethin'. Pissed off some white folk for protesting." The car turned sharply onto their street. "He called me cryin' n' everything, talkin' bout how he was doin' the right thing, the right thing. Michael," he didn't even look Mike in the eye, "I know you didn't do nothin'. He didn't do nothin'."

Mike let out a shaky breath.

"Those officers ain't nice," he continued. "They ain't nice to people like us. You know that, right?"

Mike nodded. "Yessir."

"I don't want to see you caught up with them."

Mike nodded again. The truck slowed down and pulled into the long dirt drive up to the house. When it stopped, his grandfather didn't move for a moment. Neither did Mike. He still held back tears. He wanted to curl up and cry into someone's arms... He didn't know who he would love to be with at that moment. Not his grandfather. Not Richie. Not his parents. Definitely not Stan. And shit, every time he thought about Stan his entire stomach dropped to the floor as if it was weighted down.

Stan. Stan kissed him. He didn't even know he liked boys. He didn't even know how to kiss. He didn't know. He just didn't know.

His grandpa sighed and looked ahead at the sheep, which were sleeping in the barn. He looked tired. Worn. Unraveled. The wrinkles on his face seemed to stand out more than Mike had ever seen, and the hair around his chin was clean white, not even salt and pepper anymore.

Mike opened the car door and hopped out, taking a deep breath of the cool night air. The sky was still clear. He could still see the stars that made him think of his mom. He could still feel the heat that pooled in his belly whenever he thought back to the police station. And the way his chest swelled up and his lips tingled when he remembered that he kissed someone that night- no, not someone: Stan. He heard the car door shut and his grandfather slowly stagger back to the house. His leg was a bit limp from old age, probably.

Mike closed his eyes and craned his neck back up at the sky. Then he blinked and stared down at the willow tree. Then back at the street. Then at the jacket he still had curled around his torso. He sighed and walked back into the house, where his grandparents were conversing quietly in the dim light of the kitchen. He passed them and went straight to his room. He didn't take his jacket off. He simply curled up on the bed and brought his hand to his lips, feeling them tingle under his touch. He closed his eyes and told himself to stop crying, to be masculine, strong, whatever.

When he drifted off into sleep, his mind went to his parents. He wished he was alive when they were. No, he wished they were alive. Maybe none of this would happen if they were alive. Maybe he would just be friends with the sheep forever.

 


	6. don't worry about the government

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> richie gets into more trouble.

"Have you seen Richie?" Eddie asked after school, dropping his bag on the floor of the AV room. Bill looked up from his camera and shook his head.  
Mike walked in after him, Stan close behind. Stan kept smiling at him all day. He never said anything, not in science or calculus... Every time he caught Mike's eye, he just smiled, and it made Mike's heart pulse just a little harder in his chest.

  
"He hasn't been here since lunch," Eddie continued, worry painted on his features. "He never skips AV, either."

  
Carlos glanced at him and smiled. "He's fine, Eddie, maybe he just went home sick."

  
Eddie gave him a fake smile to seem polite and turned to biting his fingernails. Mike blinked and set down his bag.

  
Carlos welcomed all of them warmly. "I got a new microphone attachment the other day," he began, but was soon cut off by the doors being pushed open heavily.

  
Everyone in the room gasped at the sight.

  
There he stood, in a ripped sweater and tattered jeans, his lip bloody and busted, right in the doorway. Mike couldn't describe him as anything other than broken. In his hand were his glasses, broken in half and shattered on one of the lenses.

  
Eddie ran up to him, his hands coming up to his face, and you'd really think Eddie was the one hurt, because his face was so pained at the sight of Richie he looked like he got socked in the gut. Richie's lips twitched a bit, and he groaned and winced a bruised eye.

  
Carlos ran to get a first aid kit, but Mike was pretty sure Eddie held one all the time. Eddie was already preoccupied, though, tending to Richie's face with concern written over his own.

  
"Jeez, Richie, what- Oh my god, baby..." Eddie's thumb lightly brushed over one of his eyes. A tear rolled down the bloody, bruised skin. Richie's arms wrapped around the boy in front him and his head sunk onto his shoulder, choked sobs ripping from the back of his throat. Mike hadn't heard anyone cry like that since his grandma did when his parents died.

  
Richie told the story through cries of pain and strings of curse words. "Eddie, they were- fuck, they were being fucking racist, Eddie, and everything-- racist fucks, racist fucking fascists, fucking- fuck, they probably voted for Reagan, Eddie, they really..."

  
Mike couldn't hear it much, as most of Richie's words were muffled by Eddie's collar. Eddie kept rubbing a small hand over the expanse of Richie's back, repeating things like, "It's okay," and "You're okay now," in a smooth voice.

  
Carlos came back and slid a chair over near the door so Richie could sit on it.  
His eye was yellow around the purple-y bruise. And the cut on his lip made it push out, like a child pouting. His hair was all matted and covered in dirt, as if he was forcefully pushed to the ground. When Mike looked down, he noticed even Richie's knuckles were bleeding. He put up a fight, then.

  
Carlos began wiping the blood off his face with a Kleenex, and Eddie went behind the chair to fix his hair.

  
"Richie, whuh-what huh-happened?" Bill stammered, crouching next to him with concern drawn on his face.

  
Richie was still crying. His eye was puffy and closed, and he tried to speak with the broken lip.

  
"I went outthide, to- thm- thmoke, athter lunch... And, thethe guyth were out there... Talking 'bout Mike." Mike felt his stomach drop. Richie cringed and another tear fell as Carlos applied pressure to his bleeding lip. It took a moment for it to stop, and he continued, the lisp gone. "They kept sayin' the n-word. I couldn't just stand there! I couldn't just..."

  
Mike's mouth went completely dry.  
Richie cleared his throat when Carlos bandaged up his knuckles. He looked with one teary eye up at Mike.

  
"I'm sorry," he mumbled, and sobbed again. "They kept calling you that- and, they kept calling me a- a-" Another sob. Eddie pressed a kiss to the top of his head. "They kept calling me a faggot."

  
"And then they beat you up?" Stan asked. It was the first time Mike heard him speak all day, and when he flicked his eyes over to him, he was standing about a foot away, his eyebrows threaded together and lips pressed in a firm line. Richie nodded.

  
"Punched, kicked, ripped in half, the whole shabang," Richie replied dryly. Then, his hand reached down to the hem of his baggy sweater and pulled it up.  
Mike gasped, audibly that time. Lining his ribcage and stomach were huge bruises, the size of his fist; They were black and blue, painting his torso with a disturbing lack of mercy. Mike had to look away. He heard Eddie cry out again.

Carlos frowned and closed up the first aid kit. "That's absolutely awful, Richie. Who were the boys? I'll report them." His voice was firm.

  
Richie's eye opened wide. "Please don't, Carlos. They'll kill me."

  
"If they were beating you up, Richie, I have to- it's my job to keep you safe."

  
Richie just sobbed and his arm went up to grab Eddie's, tugging it around him so he could cry into his elbow. Mike couldn't watch. It made him want to shed tears, too- he had no idea people were saying things like that behind his back.

For a moment he was angry that Richie even said anything. He didn't know why Richie would even bother- let them think what they want about him. Mike was irrelevant anyways. Well, irrelevant in his own mind.

He thought about it all for a moment, his head rushing with questions and asking why? Why do people care about me?!  
Carlos was freaking out about taking Richie to the hospital or calling the ambulance or something in case his ribs were cracked. Bill was biting his fingernails and trying to calm Carlos down. Stan was watching Mike think.

"It wasn't your fault," he had mumbled reassuringly when Carlos, Bill, and Eddie decided to take Richie to the nurse. The three of them had to carry him because Richie kept limping, and every time he breathed his diaphragm hurt.

Mike glanced at Stan. "It's hard to believe it's not," he replied. Stan's eyebrows furrowed. He was silent for a moment.

"It was probably Bowers..." Stan bit his lip and looked off. "You know, Richie was only trying to stand up for you," he added. "He just... There's usually a bunch of them. He couldn't have taken them all on at once. He knew he was going to get hurt. He knew that."

Mike cracked his knuckles and stared at a spot on the floor, not wanting to reply.

"I didn't think this was gonna happen when I came to public school," he whispered. Stan looked up at him. He stepped closer and held his arms out, and Mike took them, wrapping his own around the thin boy and letting his head rest on his shoulder. Mike wanted to cry. He wanted to but he didn't.

"I know it's been hard," Stan murmured. "But it's gonna get better. I promise. And if it doesn't... If it doesn't, then, we can," he took a shaky breath, "Run away, or some shit."

* * *

 

 

Mike was sitting in Home Ec the next day when a girl leaned towards him. She wore pigtails with colorful barrettes, and her braces were multicolored and stuck out of her mouth. She was in the middle of sewing something when she asked it.

"Are you a homo?" It was in a hushed voice. Mike stared wide eyes at her. What the fuck was she talking about?

It took him a second to answer. "Um. No, of course not... Why?"

She eyed him and blinked twice before speaking. "Well, I heard from a friend of a friend of a stoner who went to Greta Keene's party last weekend and she said she saw you and that Jewish kid making out near the window. She coulda been hallucinating or something, because why would you be at that party, right?"

Mike swallowed and nodded quickly, feeling the color drain out of his face. Obviously this broad thought he wasn't really there... Did that mean people thought he was? Who would have seen him? Did people know about the police station incident?

Mike simply sat back and continued sewing. He had too many questions but no one to ask them.

 


	7. i remember from maps

Mike kissed him the second time during winter break, when there was snow everywhere but it wasn't actually too cold outside. Stan wore many layers that day; A shirt, under a pullover, under a windbreaker, under Mike's dad's jacket that he borrowed after he stepped in snow and his feet got cold. He explained that when feet or hands get cold the whole body gets cold. Mike kept staring at him when he said that. He leant down and kissed him when the two were silent. 

It lasted a second or two longer than the first one. Mike enjoyed that. He also loved that when he pulled back, Stan's face was blushed, more so than it was earlier, and he bit his lip to hold back a smile. It fought back though, and he beamed, trying to cover it with his hands. Mike grinned back and took his hands away, pulling them up to his own cheeks when he felt how cold they were. 

Stan stared at him with a look of admiration in his eyes. It felt to Mike as if he was far away, a spectator, in that moment. His fingers brushed over Mike's cheekbone lightly. Neither said anything. 

The rest of that afternoon consisted of the two leaning against the willow tree next to Mike's house. His grandparents were either in the house or out getting groceries. He didn't know. He didn't really care too much, either. 

"The willow tree is gorgeous with all of the snow on it," Stan commented at one point. Mike glanced at him. "It reminds me of a Claude Monet painting." 

Mike hummed and held his hand, running the pad of his thumb over the spaces between his fingers. Stan leant his head against the tree and focused on the leaves of the weeping willow. 

He left around five, telling Mike that his dad would probably want him to be home early for dinner. He gave Mike back his jacket, and then pulled him in for a hug, wrapping his skinny arms around his neck and holding him. His head nestled into Mike's neck, and Mike pressed a kiss to the top of it. 

When Stan pulled away, he smiled up at him. "Thank you for today," he whispered, then waved, silently turning on his heel and walking up to the street that went into town. Mike watched from afar as he pulled up the collar of his jacket and breathed hot air into the sky. 

He sighed and went inside. 

That night the phone rang. The phone never rang unless it was school for a snow day or cousins around Christmas. Grandma picked it up and eyed Mike, handing the phone over to him with a hint of a smile on her lips. 

"Hello?" Mike asked. 

"Mikey!" The voice was loud, even through the phone. It crackled and Mike smiled. He took the cord of the phone into the kitchen. 

"Hey Richie!" he said with equal enthusiasm. "How'd you get my phone number?" 

"Phone book. Doesn't matter. Hey, you should come over to my place tomorrow! No one else is free 'cept for Ben, but he's depressed 'cause Bevvy finally kissed Bill under the mistletoe on Christmas Eve Eve. And I think Passover's this week so Stan's always with his dad at the synagogue." 

"Passover's in spring," Mike corrected. "Aren't you Jewish?"

"Yeah, whatever." Richie laughed. 

"But yeah, I'll come, if my grandparents let me." 

"Cool! Whenever you show up, just like... Go through the back door, 'kay? My dad smokes cigars on the porch in the morning, so you'll prob'ly see him. Went's cool, though. He won't care if you go through the back," Richie babbled. He took a breath when he finished.

"Alright." 

"I'll see you tomorrow, hillbilly." 

Mike grinned. "See ya, curly fry." 

He heard Richie laugh before the line cut, and brought the phone back to its spot in the living room. His grandmother glanced up at him through her knitting. 

"Loud boy," she said.

Mike smiled at her. "His name's Richie, he's my best friend." 

She raised an eyebrow and smiled. "Good." 

Mike went to his room and shut the door softly behind him. He jumped on his bed and hugged his chest, grinning wide.

* * *

 

Mike went through his backyard the next morning. He did see his father smoking, but he barely even saw Mike over the porch. Mike tried to ignore the fact that him smoking a cigar made the whole front yard smell terrible. 

The backyard was in worse shape than the front was. There were weeds and patches of dead grass all over it, and a weathered shed leaned over a broken fence. Mike knocked on the back door. 

Mike heard a huge thump and the door opened within seconds, a tall, messy-haired Richie grinning right at him. He was clad in flannel pajama pants and a t-shirt with "D-E-V-O" on it. Mike didn't know what that meant.

"You're early! Is this farmer time?" Richie asked, letting Mike inside. The house smelled like cigarette smoke and he wondered if it even mattered that his father smoked outside.

"Nah, I just wake up naturally early." 

Richie watched with a smile as he took off his sneakers and placed them by the back door. 

"Awesome." He ran a hand through his knotted curls. "Did you have breakfast?" 

Mike shook his head and Richie nodded for him to come to the kitchen.

"I was just eating Lucky Charms when I heard you knock. And watching Bugs Bunny. You know, the cartoons nowadays kinda suck. Nickelodeon has like, maybe two good shows, but they're on super early." He turned to Mike with wide eyes. "You wanna bowl of cereal?" 

Mike shrugged. "Sure." 

Minutes later he was sitting on Richie's living room couch, spooning Fruity Pebbles into his mouth, staring at the television. 

When he finished the bowl, he brought it to the kitchen sink, where Richie followed him. 

"Wanna see my room?" 

He had clothes on the ground near his bed, but it wasn't as bad as Mike expected. The walls were covered in posters of bands and musicians he never heard of, except for the one right above his bed for Nirvana. He pointed at it and Richie laughed, and the two reminisced to when they first met. 

Around then was when Richie started to show him all of his records. 

"This is the Talking Heads," he held up a vinyl close to Mike's face, "I'm gonna play you a song on this. I was listening to it a couple weeks ago and it really reminded me of you."

Richie placed the needle on the record, close to the spot in the middle where it ends. Then he turned on the player, holding his hands to his face. The song started to play. Mike sat on the carpet and watched the record spin.

"It's called The Big Country," Richie murmured. "My dad gave me this record." 

Richie hummed along to the lyrics, before standing up and bringing Mike with him. 

Richie danced oddly. He danced like he was at a punk rock show, holding his head and bouncing around his room. His curls bounced around, falling in his face. Mike tried to dance the same way, and broke into laughter. 

 _"I wouldn't live there... If you paid me to!"_ Richie sung out. Mike grinned. 

The album ended rather abruptly and Richie stopped dancing when it did, wiping the sweat from his forehead and laughing. He looked at Mike and laughed even louder. Mike laughed along, until his face hurt. There was a bang, someone hitting the stairs loudly. Richie's expression dropped. 

"Suck my dick, Went!" he yelled, and didn't wait for a response as he restarted the record, turning up the volume all the way. Mike thought he could've felt the floor shake. 

Richie glanced at Mike and readjusted his glasses, then grinned. Mike smiled back.

Around twelve the two lay on Richie's bed, now listening to what Richie referred to as "the only music that will ever matter". Richie seemed to feel very strongly about his music taste, Mike noticed. He also noticed that Richie never relaxed. He bounced his leg a lot, and when he wasn't talking, he was pulling at his fingers or cracking his knuckles. At one point he lay on his side. He stared at Mike's face and reached over to touch him, running his fingers over his features. 

"I do this to Eddie all the time, and he hates it," he mumbled as the tip of his finger ran over the curve of Mike's nose a couple times. Mike smiled. "I don't think he really hates it. That's why he lets me do it." 

"Do you like Eddie?" Mike asked tentatively. He closed his eyes when Richie's fingers got there. 

"'Course I do." He pulled his hand back, and Mike opened his eyes. "I love Eddie." 

"You love him?" 

Richie bit his lip. "Well- I'm not gay, if that's what you're asking. Eddie's gay. I'm not gay." He cracked his knuckles. "I'm not gay," he repeated.

"Rich, it's okay," Mike assured. 

Richie licked his lips. He blinked and Mike realized he was trying to hold back tears. 

"Y'know, Eddie came out last year, and everyone hated him. For the whole year. 'N they'd write like, mean notes on his folders. One time he got his locker vandalized." Richie took off his glasses and set them beside him before continuing. "When people saw him hanging out with me they thought I was gay. But I'm not. I don't think I'm gay, I mean..." 

Mike frowned. "It's okay if you are..."

Richie sat up. "I know! I know, I just- everyone asks me. Even girls ask me, and I'm usually a fucking chick magnet, until Holly and her little friends spread that rumor." He laughed dryly and turned to the record player, nodding towards it. "You know, Bowie would always get rumors 'bout fucking guys. He was so cool about it. He came out as gay, in the 70's, you know that?" Richie stretched back out and down on the bed again. 

"Really?" 

"Yeah. He married a woman though. Bisexual, I guess." 

They were silent for a moment, except for the music and Richie breathing. 

"My dad protested for that kinda stuff when he was in his twenties," Mike said. 

Richie perked up. "For real? That's fuckin' awesome." 

Mike nodded. "Yeah, he hung out with a  buncha hippies. He got arrested, though." 

Richie nodded. "I think all of them did at some point. Police hate controversy." Richie shuffled and leaned on his elbow. "I wish my dad was cool like that. He stopped listening to good music after he married my mom. At first I listened to it so we could have something in common, but we don't really anymore." 

"Same with my grandparents. Except we never had anything in common." Mike snorted. 

Richie hummed along to the song. He opened his mouth, then hesitated, staring at the chipping paint on the ceiling. "I wish bad things didn't happen," he finally said. 

"Me too." 

"Do your grandparents pray?" 

Mike nodded. "My grandma does. All the time." 

Richie nodded, too. "I think praying is stupid. God isn't gonna make things better, y'know? He's not gonna come down and fix every problem in the world. I mean, fuck. How do you explain that there are children getting raped in this world? God doesn't do shit. Either there's no god, or there is one, and he's as bad as the devil." 

Mike raised his eyebrows. He said nothing. He never knew someone could be so serious about the topic.

The record ended. 

"Sorry," Richie murmured. "That was- uh. Heavy." 

"It's fine." 

Mike picked at the part of his lips that were chapped. Richie played with his fingers.

"I feel like you're the only one I can talk to 'bout that stuff," Richie said. "I mean, I couldn't tell the rest of them about my opinions on God and shit. Fuck, I couldn't even remember my opinions on God around them." 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cool so i love the songs played in this chapter and it may seem like this chapter doesn't really make sense but it DOES i promise lmao please listen to the songs i'll give u a kiss


	8. "i am not complete"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mike sleeps over at stan's

  
"Well, Rich," Stan sighed, biting his lip and staring at the apple in his hand, "Today marks the first day in history that you weren't a dumbass."

  
Richie grinned at him, stealing a fry from Bill's tray and hanging an arm around Eddie. Eddie scrunched his nose up before relaxing, staring wide eyes up at the boy next to him.

  
Spring had come, finally, and they all sat outside for lunch. It wasn't too cold outside, just a breeze, and the sun shined through the trees above them. Mike leaned back on his hands in the grass and smiled at Richie and Eddie.

  
"How'd you ask him?" Beverly piped up from the other side of their circle.

  
"A bottle of champagne and an engagement ring," Richie lied, and Eddie rolled his eyes, smiling.

  
"This a-hole brought me a Happy Meal from McDonald's and played that stupid The Cure song."

  
Richie scoffed, bringing his hand to his heart painfully, as if he was fatally wounded. "Excuse me?! Robert Smith is a genius, you uncultured swine!"

  
Eddie laughed and pushed him away. Following that, Richie tackled him. Mike blinked and turned to Stan, who gave him a sly smile. He raised his eyebrows at him, and mouthed something, but Mike couldn't make out what he was saying. The lunch bell rang too soon, and everyone gathered their things to go back to class.

  
"Are we ditching prom?" Stan asked, gripping the straps of his backpack with both hands.

  
Mike felt bad that he hadn't even though about prom. "Do you want to?"

  
Stan shrugged. "I mean... It's part of our high school experience, right?"

  
"I guess so. I missed half of high school, anyway, so it doesn't really matter."

  
Stan sighed. "I don't want what happened at Greta's to happen again," he murmured.

  
Mike stopped at his locker, pulling out his history textbook with a guilty expression. "'M sorry."

  
"It's okay, Mike. It wasn't your fault."

  
The hallways cleared out mostly, and Mike shut his locker. Stan was staring up at him. Mike half smiled, trying to make him happy. Stan shook his head and brought his hand up to hold Mike's cheek, his fingers gently tracing over the skin before he took his hand back.

  
"Come over after school?"

  
Mike nodded. "Yeah."

  
Stan smiled and waved, turning down the corridor and leaving Mike alone.

* * *

 

  
"Dad, this is Mike," Stan's voice cracked as the two stood in his study. Stan's house was kinda fancy, Mike thought. His father looked up from the book he was reading and eyed him from the large upholstered mahogany chair he was seated in. His eyebrows raised, but only slightly.

   
"Nice to meet you, Michael," he greeted. His voice was firmer than Stan's. Not as firm as Mike's grandpa, definitely not, but stronger than Stan's.

  
"Good evening, Mr Uris."

  
Stan breathed in shakily. "We're going to do our homework, then watch a movie. It's Friday. Can he sleep over?"

  
His father hesitated, then nodded. "Be good. Don't make too much noise. And make sure his parents know." Mike winced, but didn't let it show.

  
Stan nodded and the two left his office. He exhaled a huge breath after closing the door. Mike smiled.

  
"You okay?"

  
Stan opened his eyes and looked at Mike, before quickly moving up and placing a swift kiss at the corner of his lips. He stood back on his heels and nodded for Mike to follow him.

  
Stan's room didn't have as many posters as Richie's did. And the floors were infinitely cleaner. And the ceiling paint wasn't chipped. He had a desk with a sketchbook from art class and his graphing calculator on it.

  
Mike initially sat on the desk chair, but after they finished their homework, Stan pulled him to the carpet so the two could look through his assortment of movies on his shelf. It was like Richie's collection of vinyls.

  
"What movie do you wanna watch?" he asked when Mike sat next to him.

  
"I don't know. I don't watch a lot of movies."

  
Stan leaned his head on Mike's shoulder. He read through all of the titles, sighing.   
He finally picked one towards the end, and showed it to Mike. "Edward Scissorhands. Have you seen this one?"

  
Mike shook his head. Stan put the video in its player and started it. The two watched it from his bed. 

Mike cried at the end of Edward Scissorhands. He tried not to let Stan see it, but the sun was only then starting to set, and his tears were visible.

  
He laid down next to Stan on his bed. He envied the fact that Stan had a television set in his room. He didn't let it show, obviously. It was a stupid thing to be jealous about.

  
He ran his finger over the slope of Stan's nose, subconsciously tracing his features, like Richie did to him. Stan let him and closed his eyes. His breaths were almost like miniature sighs that he slowly exhaled. Mike liked listening to them. Maybe more than he liked listening to Richie's bisexual guy's records.

  
Stan opened his eyes and gave Mike a careful look. He got up on his elbow to properly level eyes with him, then leaned forward to kiss him. Mike kissed back, bringing his hand up to Stan's jaw. He pulled back and stared at him. Stan laughed in small huffs before he let his head fall on Mike's shoulder. He pressed small kisses onto his collarbone, and his hand found the other's, lacing the fingers together. Then, he rested his arm over Mike's chest, curling around him and laying his head on his shoulder. Mike worried that he would hear his heartbeat grow faster.

  
"Do you... Do you ever feel scared?" Stan asked after a while. Mike didn't move.   
"Of what?"

  
"Of spilling everything to someone? That maybe sometime... Sometime in the future, everything you told them will seem so small and unworthy? But right now, it means everything?"

  
Mike stared at the white ceiling and let his thumb trace patterns into the expanse of Stan's back. He thought about the question.

  
"I'm not afraid, really," he responded carefully.

  
"You're gonna hate me."

  
Mike let his hand go up to Stan's hair, and played with that instead.

  
"Why?"

  
Stan took a shaky breath. "Because I'm officially going to tell you too much. And you're gonna hate me for telling you so much."

  
"I'm not."

  
Stan sat up. Mike's hand fell to the bed and Stan studied his face, a soft and understanding tone to his own. He blinked and ran a hand through his curls, sighing and looking up.

  
"I love you, Mike," he breathed. Mike stared at him, at the way his eyes looked tired yet sincere, and the hair in the back of his head was disheveled. "And not like... Not like Richie loves Eddie. Or- or Ben and Bill love Beverly. I love you in a different way." He leant down and held Mike's face in his hands. "You make me want to do anything at the drop of a hat," he went on, in a steady voice. He pressed a chaste kiss to his lips and let his arm curl over Mike's waist again. He bit his lip. "No one's ever made me feel like... Like I'm not just Stan Uris."

  
Mike was stunned. He held the boy as he curled back into his shoulder.

  
"God, I sound like a stupid teenager. I'm so young. I'm so far gone, Mike, I really..."

Mike licked his lips. "It's not stupid."

  
There was a long moment of silence. Mike could hear the tick of a clock somewhere in the house.

  
"I write about you sometimes," Stan said quietly.

  
"Really?"

  
He nodded against his collarbone. Mike felt his heart swell in his chest.

  
"I- um. Bill, he gave me this book of poems. And some of them make me really sad. So I write my own. But I can't write poems for shit, that's," he laughed, "That's Ben's job. So I just wrote a bunch of paragraphs."

He sat up again and dug around the drawer of his desk. He pulled out crumpled pieces of lined paper, and dragged himself back to the bed, his sweatpants long enough to pool around his feet. Mike smiled when he came back. Stan stood in front of him next to the bed. He handed the papers to him.

Mike began to read through the scratchy, small handwriting. Stan didn't sit back down on the bed, so Mike subconsciously reached out and wrapped his arm around his waist. Where he was standing, his hips were in line with Mike's face. So Mike kissed his hipbones lightly. He didn't know if that were weird or not, but he didn't pay much mind to it- he was fully invested in the writing.

  
Stan wrote about him in different ways. Some were unfinished and had scribbled out mistakes. Others had add-ons and went on until there was no room left. One was a list of words he affiliated with Mike.

  
Mike felt a hand soothing the back of his head. He blinked up from the last piece of paper, and Stan was smiling sadly. When he noticed Mike, he drew his bottom lip between his teeth.

  
"You're perfect," Mike said, and pressed another kiss to the skin exposed between his shirt and sweatpants.

  
"I'm not." Stan moved back and sat gently on the bed, inches away from Mike. He held his face in his hands and stared ahead.

  
"Don't be afraid of me," Mike pleaded.

  
Stan gave him a sideway look before he caved. "I'm not. I'm afraid I'll scare you off."

  
"Why would you scare me off?"

  
"Honesty."

  
Mike threaded his eyebrows together and leaned towards him. "You're not telling the truth?"

  
Stan worried. "I am. I always am. Just... Too much honesty."

  
Mike ran his fingers over his knuckles. Stan let him. He brought Stan's hand to his lips and kissed each joint, pressing tiny hearts to his skin. Stan breathed shakily.

  
"I love you too," Mike mumbled against his skin, thought he didn't really know what love meant. He only knew how to feel it. He kissed up the inside of Stan's wrist. It made him shiver. "Never leave."

  
Stan huffed out another laugh and moved his fingers to run over Mike's eyebrows. "If I leave, you're coming with me."

  
Mike smiled and closed his eyes, catching Stan's lips again and pushing him back to the bed. It made him collapse into laughter, and Mike followed suit. They toppled into his pillows and soon fell asleep to the other's slow breathing. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow i love boys in love and also foreshadowing :)))


	9. boys don't cry

Richie walked home with him the week before prom. He tried to sucker him into going, but knew it was too late to get a ticket. Or rent any tuxes. Not that Richie was getting a tux, anyways.

  
"Stan doesn't wanna go, either. Are you guys gonna hang out that night?" Richie asked, boardsliding over a cement curb before rolling back onto the pavement. Mike almost forgot Richie had no idea that him and Stan-

  
"I dunno. Maybe."

  
Richie nodded. "Me and Eddie can meet up with you two after the dance and everything."

  
Mike blinked over at him. "Oh no, you don't have to. I mean, I'm sure you'd rather dance all night long, right?"

  
Richie shrugged. Then he grinned slyly. "I guess. Prom night's usually sex city anyways, if you catch my drift. I told Eds I'd be stopping by his mother's room that night anyways."

  
Mike snickered. He looked up at the blue sky, clear of clouds and dead trees. There wasn't even wind blowing through the air. It was still.

  
Richie bumped against him a little, and Mike noticed he had jumped off his skateboard and was holding it in his hand. He smiled when Mike turned towards him, and pushed up his glasses.

  
"If you needa tell me anything, dude, I'm always here."

  
Mike stared at him and grinned shyly, and was about to thank him before the taller boy got distracted.

  
"Shit, my dad's home. I forgot to do the dishes- ah- Hey, I'll see you tomorrow, 'kay?" Richie looked over his dad's car parked in front of his house. Mike nodded. "Think about the after-prom thing for me, right?"

  
"Of course," Mike replied.

  
Richie patted him on the shoulder before he jogged onto his lawn and passed his father on the porch. Mike quickly walked past his house, looking down at his worn sneakers all the way.

* * *

 

 

He got a call that night from Stan.

  
"Can we leave?" was the first thing he said when Mike picked it up. Mike blinked and then laughed nervously.

  
His grandma had finally let him bring the telephone up to his bedroom, out of persuasion from his side and not wanting to hear phone calls at 9 p.m. on a weeknight from her side.

  
"Hey, Stan, what's- what?"

  
Mike could hear a deep breath over the line. "We need to leave Derry, Mike. Mikey, I fucking hate it here. I hate it so much- I-" His voice was choked, as if someone were holding him in a headlock.

  
"What's wrong? Are you okay?" Mike sat up straight in his bed, furrowing his eyebrows together.

  
"I'm okay now, I'm fine now, please, Mike," he repeated. "Can we leave? My aunt, she lives in Boston. And she- she likes me, she actually likes me, Mike, I'm thinking we get the train on Friday night and go to Boston-"

  
Mike cut him off. "What the hell are you talking about, baby?"

  
Stan stopped babbling. He breathed a couple times before responding, and Mike could've bet he was having one of Eddie's asthma attacks. "I don't wanna be here anymore. I'm going insane," he paused, "I don't think... I don't think leaving should be my first choice, but I can't think of any other way to fix this."

  
Mike cradled the phone between his shoulder and ear, laying back down on his bed. "Fix what? What are you trying to fix?"

  
It took Stan so long to reply that Mike thought he hung up. "Home."

  
"What's wrong? Please tell me, I hate hearing you like this."

  
"Everything is wrong. I wanna leave, I just want to go somewhere else. I feel like I'm trapped. Are you ever trapped, Mike?"

  
"I don't know Stan, I never know. I never think."

  
Stan laughed, but it sounded like it was through tears. "I just think too much."

  
Mike wished he could reach through the line and kiss his cheeks, warm his hands, which always seemed freezing cold, and tell him he's okay. "How long have you wanted to leave?"

  
"Forever. I never had plans to... I think when I met you, I forgot about it all. Like... All of the things that made me wanna leave. But they're worse now."   
Mike simply responded with a weak, "It'll be fine..."

  
"I have to go- um, I have to go or my dad'll- he'll- Listen, I'll see you tomorrow, please don't hate me. I love you. I don't know how you can be so nice and so sweet and perfect all the time and- I have to go." The line cut instantly before Mike could reply to his litany of sweet words.

  
He replaced the phone and moved to lay on his side. He couldn't fall asleep for the rest of that night. He couldn't even imagine what could've made Stan that upset, upset enough to want to leave forever.

* * *

 

  
"Are you insane?" Mike whisper screamed after AV club. Stan looked hurt for a split second, but persevered.

  
"I called her," he went on as they pushed through the double doors, "She said she has a free room in her apartment. We could go there, Mike, we could live there and find jobs and-"

  
Mike grabbed his wrists and looked around, quickly surveilling the hallways. Richie and Eddie were hanging out today, and Ben and Bill never walked their way anyways. Mike looked back down into Stan's sincere eyes.

  
"I don't even know what made you think of this," Mike started, and dropped his wrists, moving instead to cup his cheeks in his hands, "You need to explain. I can't leave without knowing why."

  
Stan hesitated. "My parents expect me to become a rabbi. They expect me to live here forever. And neither of them know what happened to me there when I was little. No one ever asked. That's why I stopped talking for a year and a half when I was six. My dad, he thought I just had speech issues.

  
"I can't live here forever. She's always there, Mike, she's always at the temple every time we go and I hate it, I hate her, I don't want to- I-huh-" Stan was shaking now, in Mike's arms, his bottom lip trembling. Mike wrapped his arms around him, letting his head rest on his shoulder. Stan sobbed into his shoulder, and Mike held him close, murmuring small words of understanding and assurance into his ear.

  
"I-can't - I can't go," Stan stuttered.

  
"I know, baby." Mike looked over his shoulder out the window, where Eddie and Richie were laughing and pushing at each other. He gripped onto Stan tighter. He thought about it- would his grandparents be upset that he left, if he did? Would they try to find him? Would they let him go, like they let his parents when they were hippies? Mike chewed on his lip and whispered, finally, impulsively, "I'll... I'll leave with you. I'll go."

* * *

 

 

_Dear grandma and grandpa,_

__  
I don't know if I'll be gone forever. I really don't know. I'm sorry that I ever left, but I want you to know that I'm safe. I have the house number if I'm ever in need of your help. (By the way, I put the phone back downstairs) I don't want to tell you my exact whereabouts, but I'm staying at my friend's aunt's house in Boston. I needed to leave. I have to live. I haven't been living. I'll be back, I promise. Please don't hate me. I'm your only grandson.  
                                             Love,   
                                            Mike H. 

  
Mike rewrote the letter five different times. When he finally got it right, he placed it on the middle of his bed. Then he grabbed his backpack, dumped all of his school work out and filled it with clothes, scraps of money from old birthdays, and water bottles. He grabbed his father's jacket off the post of his bed and left his room.

  
"Where are you goin'?" His grandma called from the living room.

  
"Prom is tonight," Mike blurted. His grandma looked up from the couch.

  
"Oh!" She put down her knitting and cocked her head. Mike was going to start sweating if she kept looking at him that way. "Who're you taking, then?"

  
Mike said the first name that came to his mind. "Bev! Beverly Marsh. She's really pretty. Maybe you can meet her sometime."

  
She nodded her head and hummed. Then she glanced over at his backpack. She said nothing, simply raised her eyebrows.  
"Well, I'll see you soon. Have fun."

  
Mike nodded. "Thank you."

  
He shut the front door behind him, and breathed heavily.

  
He was halfway across the lawn when he stopped in his tracks. He turned toward the willow tree and ran over to it. He rested his head against the trunk and stayed silent for a moment.

  
"I'll be back, mom. I know you both think I'm crazy for doing this and I'm sorry. I'll be back. I promise."

  
He lifted his head up and whirled around. He almost screeched when he saw someone running towards him.

  
Richie Tozier, clad in a cheap red corduroy jacket and baggy suit pants was sprinting at him. Mike stood in his paths. When Richie came closer, Mike saw his face was red and there were tears streaming down his cheeks.

  
He collapsed into Mike's arms, starting to immediately babble incoherent words into his shoulder.

  
"Please Mike please don't please don't ever go I can't stand to do anything without you do you know how boring life is without you it's so boring Mike please don't go I know you're leaving just please don't..."

  
Mike pulled the boy back, holding him by the back of his neck. His face was absolutely distraught- tear stains up and down his freckled cheeks, bloodshot eyes, messy dark curls falling onto his forehead.

"I'm not... How did you know?"

Richie sniffled and closed his eyes, pushing out more tears. "Stan used to tell me he wanted to leave before you came around. He's been so quiet about it lately and I thought it was weird until I realized that you were distracting him- and- and you were distracting me, too! And I knew Stan would only ever leave tonight. I know Stan!" he exclaimed. "I know him." Then, he glanced back into Mike's eyes and his face screwed up into crying again. "You can't go, Mike! You're my- you're my best friend!" He clung onto him again, and Mike held on as well.

"You're my... best f-friend," he choked out again.

"Richie, I-"

He was cut off by a honk of a car. His head snapped up off of Richie's shoulder. Sure enough, there was Stan, in his dad's Buick, pulled against the side of the road. Richie pulled away from him and turned around. Then he started walking towards it. Mike followed.

Richie bent over the car and tapped on Stan's window for him to push it down. He still had tears on his face, Mike noticed, but they were beginning to dry. Richie smiled slightly.

"Think I could catch a ride to prom, Papa?" he asked, deliberately unlike his usually joking voice. Stan smiled back and nodded, and Richie jumped in the backseat. Mike climbed into the passenger, and stared at Stan.

Stan met his eyes and held out his hand, waiting for Mike to take it as he started to drive to Derry High.

When they stopped, Richie bent over the console in the middle of the car. He looked at both of the boys in the front, at their hands clasped together, and Mike could've sworn he was about to cry again.

Instead, he leaned forward and placed a kiss on each of their cheeks, pulling back and smiling weakly.

"You know where I am," he mumbled. "I'll be here. If you need me."

Mike felt his heart get wrenched out and stomped all over at the sound of his voice. He looked over his shoulder. Richie stared at him, his eyes dark and sad.

"You're my best friend, too, Rich," he said. "You'll always be."

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is really sad and i know the chapters lowkey short but uh. I Like Where It's Going, So Imma Keep It This Way. let me know if you like this!!! please !!! 


	10. jonesing for a cigarette

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry that this is heavy. i didn't mean for it to be. i'm also trying really hard not to focus this around sexual abuse/assault because i genuinely don't think that's what it should be about. i'm trying to have key representation in this and i'm sorry if i do it wrong.

 

Stan parked the car back in front of his house. Luckily, his house was fairly close to the center of town. He sat in the driver's seat for a moment before climbing out, breathing in and out and gripping tight onto the steering wheel. Mike watched him, and followed him out the car door. Stan closed it gently. Then, he took his bag out of the back. He checked to make sure everything was out of the car.

 

He'd specifically told both himself and Mike to only use one backpack for their endeavor. Stan would take food and most of their pooled money, along with clothes and underwear. When they got to the train station, it was late. The person at the counter was old and drowsy. Maybe drunk. Mike couldn't tell because he was drinking a huge cup of coffee in a mug that had "#1 Uncle" printed on the side.

 

He barely paid attention to the two boys. He simply threw out two tickets to Boston through the slot, and took a huge slurp of his 'coffee'. Stan thanked him shortly.

 

They entered the train and there were two other people on it. One Mike presumed was homeless. He didn't like assuming, but he did anyways. The other was fast asleep, passed out on the pull out table.

 

Stan urged Mike to sit at the very back of the train cart. Mike obliged. An hour into the ride, Stan leaned his head on Mike's shoulder; Then, he fell asleep to Mike tracing over the knuckles on his hands.

 

The ride was five hours long. It felt like an entire day had passed to Mike. He couldn't sleep, he never could when the floor under him was moving. He did, however, spend the time thinking. It came upon him in the last hour that he would be turning seventeen in only a couple of days. That's right, he thought, it's the twentieth. He bit his lip. Would they be back by then? Maybe so, but in a lot of trouble. He suddenly dreaded going on this trip, but it was too late to go back now.

 

He squeezed Stan's hand to wake him up. He didn't at first; Instead he pressed his face farther into Mike's shoulder, causing Mike to have to shake his arm a bit.

 

"We're already here?"

 

Mike nodded. "You slept most of the time."

 

Stan laughed and stood up, stretching out the kinks in his back and neck before grabbing his backpack. Mike wondered why their tickets were never punched. Maybe they didn't need to be this late at night. Stan and him left the train station and were left alone on the streets.

 

"You know your way around Boston?" Mike asked, nibbling on his lip and glancing worriedly over at Stan. Stan nodded and then stopped shortly, looking around the street they were on before turning and briskly walking down the a block. Mike followed him.

 

"Do we look suspicious?" Stan said over his shoulder.

 

"You do," Mike answered. "Stop walking so fast. Act like you're supposed to be here."

 

Stan nodded curtly. He hung back with Mike. "She's my aunt Ruth," he said quietly. "She lives alone. I think she- uh, she broke up with her boyfriend recently. So. Just don't say anything about that."

 

Boyfriend. That's what Mike had been meaning to ask him. Were the two of them... boyfriends? Were they allowed to call each other that? Did Stan want to call him that?

 

Her apartment was a couple blocks down and on the fifth floor. It was the 14th apartment on the floor. The number hanging on the outside of the door was unhinged slightly, threatening to fall off. Stan knocked.

 

Mike heard tumbling before three locks were undone and it was opened wide.

 

And Ruth stood, with an almost see-through tank top and sweatpants, in the door. Her hair was dark, way way way darker than Stan's - Richie's hair dark - and pulled up messily in a bun. She seemed only in her twenties, maybe thirties. She smiled though, when she saw them.

 

"Stan!" she exclaimed, passing a cigarette to her other hand so she could wrap her arm around him in a half hug. "Nice to see you again, squirt. And you're..."

 

"He's Mike."

 

"I'm Mike."

 

She laughed raspy and nodded, stepping out of the way to welcome them into the apartment. She started to talk about the bedroom they'd be staying in.

 

"Boston's pretty good 'bout space, I guess. If you two don't want to sleep in the same bed, I got a couch, too," she said. Stan smiled when Mike eyed him.

 

"Thank you, Ruth."

 

She turned around and blew smoke out of her thin lips. "'Course. Make yourselves at home."

 

Stan led Mike into the spare room and dropped his backpack on the ground. He closed the door softly, and leaned up to press a kiss to Mike's chin. Mike let go of his bag as well and brought the skinny boy into a hug, leaning his head on the other's shoulder.

 

Over his shoulder he stared at the knick knacks on the dresser. There were books by poets he didn't know and souvenirs. On the corner was a small wooden ash tray shaped like an African woman.

 

"Boys? Are you hungry?" Ruth called from outside the room. Stan peeled himself off of Mike and looked at him. He shrugged and turned back to the door.

 

"We're good for now. Thank you."

 

She mumbled something and he could hear her feet padding back to her own room.

 

Moments later Mike and Stan were curled underneath the covers, facing each other. Stan stared at Mike while he rested his eyes and hummed a tune to a song he heard sometime that day.

 

"Thank you for coming... I really," Stan breathed in when Mike opened his eyes, "I appreciate it."

 

Mike nodded.

 

"I know you probably didn't want to. I'm sorry. I couldn't do it alone."

 

Out of drowsiness and sleep deprivation, Mike blurted what was on his mind. "What did she do to you?"

 

Stan was silent for a minute. Mike pulled him closer. He didn't want to say sorry, didn't have the energy to.

 

"She hurt me," he started. "I don't know, Mike, I was so young. I was eight when it happened... And she told me everything was okay." He shivered, even under all the covers over them. "I didn't realize it wasn't until I was twelve and I told Richie I'd lost my..."

 

Mike swallowed thickly and rubbed his hand on the back of Stan's neck, soothing the skin.

 

"I don't know. I don't like to," he choked up and Mike pressed a kiss to his forehead, "Uh, talk about it."

 

"You don't have to." Mike closed his eyes shut. _Stupid_. "I'm sorry."

 

"None of it was your fault."

 

Mike didn't say anything. He searched around under the covers for Stan's handand brought it up, kissing the palm lightly.

 

"We can stay here as long as we need to," he mumbled against the rough skin. Stan watched him, his eyes glassy. "As much time you need." The smaller boy nodded and closed his eyes, deciding then was a good time to fall asleep in Mike's arms.

 

* * *

 

 

Mike woke up to Stan playing with the shell of his ear. It tickled and he laughed through his sleep before cracking his eyes open. Stan was smiling back at him, his skin illuminated only by the rays of light peaking through the shades of the window. Mike wanted to kiss his cheeks but he wasn't sure if Stan would appreciate his morning breath.

 

Fuck. He forgot a toothbrush.

 

Stan's fingers tapped along his jawline gently. "I like waking up next to you," he breathed out, barely audible. As if Mike wasn't supposed to hear it.

 

"Me too," Mike whispered back.

 

They stayed in the bed for another hour. Not particularly talking. Mike fell asleep for a couple minutes, and when he woke up he claimed he was only resting his eyes, at which Stan giggled.

 

Ruth knocked on their door and they sat up, letting her in. She popped only her head in, glancing around until she found them. "I got Froot Loops and Count Chocula in the kitchen," she said, then smiled. "Lemme know if you want some."

 

They got dressed properly and left the room. Mike got a good look of the apartment in its full space. A signed guitar hung on the wall above the couch, and next to it was a poster Mike had sworn he'd seen before.

 

He stared at it more while eating his cereal. Then he pointed to it.

 

"Oh! That's Richie's bisexual British guy!"

 

Stan looked awfully confused for a secondwhile Ruth bursted into laughter.

 

"David Bowie, dude. You don't know him?" Ruth cocked her head to the side, spooning the rainbow cereal into her mouth with furrowed eyebrows. Mike shrugged.

 

"Richie- Our friend, he's played him a couple times." 

 

Ruth nodded. Stan looked at him, carefully choosing to smile. He turned to his aunt. "Mike doesn't listen to a lot of music," he commented, a slight joke to his tone.

 

"Yeah, well," Mike drawled. "Other than Ella Fitzgerald."

 

Stan's eyes widened and a blush bloomed onto his cheeks. Mike sat back with a smile and finished his cereal. Ruth narrowed her eyes at them.

 

"Is Richie the one who'd always eat chametz during Passover?"

 

Stan nodded and laughed. "Once, on the first day he called me saying he couldn't take it anymore and bought an Egg McMuffin from Mcdonald's. He told me I couldn't tell anyone." He laughed again at the memory.

 

Ruth grinned. "You better not have. Your dad woulda killed him if he found out."

 

"Yeah," Stan nodded, "Probably."

 

Mike smiled softly and stared up at the poster. His eyes traveled all over the apartment, really. He studied the books lined up on a shelf and the television that looked brand new compared to the one his grandparents owned.

 

It was raining outside, so Ruth said they shouldn't go out unless they brought umbrellas with them (which they didn't). They spent the rest of the day watching old movies Mike never saw.

 

 _Stand By Me_ was one of them. Mike really enjoyed that one, he'd told Stan after it was over. More than _Edward Scissorhands_ , maybe. It reminded him of his own friends... And when Gordy came to the realization that he never had the best friends he had then, it made Mike believe that he'd be like that, too.

 

He idly wondered if he'd ever see Richie again. Or Eddie. Or even Bill and Ben and Bev and Carlos. He remembered they never got to shoot their own film in AV club. He thought about mentioning it to Stan, but didn't want to make him feel guilty.

 

That night, Ruth ordered pizza. Mike only had a slice, but it was good anyway. They watched another movie, _Roman Holiday_ , and by midnight Mike was in bed, absolutely exhausted, even though he did close to nothing all day.

 

The next morning went as followed:

 

Mike woke up to the phone ringing and Stan leaving the bed. He waited in the guest room silently to see if he could hear Stan's hushed voice in the other room.

 

Then he stood and opened the door wide, leaning against the jamb and watching as Stan twirled the cord of the phone around his forefinger anxiously. He walked over and gave him a look.

 

"It's Beverly," he filled him in. Mike's eyebrows raised. Beverly? Why her?

 

"What's wrong?"

 

Stan passed the phone to Mike, his hand shooting up to press against his forehead. Mike took it and answered.

 

"Hey, it's Mike."

 

"Hi, Mike," Beverly's voiced seemed strained, like she was trying to be cheery but failing. "Some things have been happening while you two were gone."

 

Mike cocked his head and Stan leaned towards him to listen in. "Like what?"

 

"They started putting up missing posters of you two, you know. And the cops came to Richie's house." Mike's eyes widened. "His dad was super pissed about it and yelled at them and Richie. My bet's because he's got a gun he doesn't want the cops to find."

 

Mike could have laughed but didn't have the energy to. He knew it was impolite but she'd just told him he was technically missing... How was he supposed to laugh?

 

"Listen, um... I know this is really heavy for you, obviously, and I don't want to be the bearer of bad news- sorry, I don't know how doctors do this," she drew in an audible breath and restarted, "Your grandpa, he's in the, uh. He's in the hospital."

 

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

 

Mike went absolutely silent. He passed the phone carefully to Stan, who looked heartbroken, and stumbled back until he met the couch. His eyes casted downwards and stared ahead at nothing. Thoughts rushed through his brain too fast and he felt like he was going to puke.

 

Stan hung up the phone without saying anything and sat next to Mike, his dainty hands in his lap. Mike couldn't look at him. He really felt sick. If he turned his head he would hurl.

 

"Mike, I..."

 

Mike tried to breathe in through his nose and out his mouth. His mind fogged and went backwards.

 

* * *

 

 

"Grandma?" he asked quietly. She was in her room. Mike had already knocked but knew he wasn't allowed in until she came to the door. He waited. "Grandma, what's wrong?"

 

Strong hands pulled him up by his armpits and held his tiny body close. When Mike looked up, his grandpa was staring down at him, his eyes glassy.

 

"What happened?" Mike repeated. "Why are you crying?"

 

His grandpa ran a rough skinned finger over his round cheek. Mike's eyebrows threaded together and his lip jutted out.

 

"What?" he whined. "Where's mommy? I want mommy."

 

Grandpa closed his eyes solemnly and opened his mouth. "Mom and dad ain't gonna be around anymore," he said.

 

Mike didn't say anything. He stared at the tear that ran down his grandpas cheek. "What do you mean? You mean they left?"

 

He thought of the sheep that had "left" earlier that week. Were they sent away?

 

"No, Mikey, they're..."

* * *

 

They're dead. Dead. Dead.

 

Mike couldn't get it out of his head. Stan was saying something quietly next to him but his ears were fuzzy and he couldn't make it out.

 

"What's the date?" he cut off whatever Stan was saying.

 

"The twenty-third."

 

"I'm seventeen in two days."

 

Stan made a small gasp. Mike didn't look at him. He stared at his hands and tried to breathe. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't remember how to.

 

"I didn't know that," Stan mumbled, his eyes wide and guilty.

 

"I know."

 

Something in Mike made him want to just start screaming at Stan for making him come to Boston out of no where. Him, of all people. He was angry. He was scared. He didn't know what to do.

 

He didn't realize he was shaking until the boy next to him rested his hand on his knee. Every part of him was shaking. Was he breathing? He couldn't tell if he was breathing or not.

 

Mike toppled onto Stan, breaking down completely. He remembered when Richie cried on Eddie after he got beat up. He instantly felt even worse, and bawled loud and ugly. Stan seemed shocked. One of his arms care around and held Mike's body, rubbing his back.

 

"Why me?" Mike sobbed out, drawing in shaky and crying out again. His tears were wet and stained Stan's striped sweater.

 

Stan pulled him up and held his cheeks, remaining calm. Mike felt the tears wetting his face as he stared at him. Stan breathed in heavily before speaking. "I'm sorry, Mike. Listen, we'll go home, okay? Tonight."

 

Mike didn't want to nod in agreement. He wanted to go home. He wanted to see his grandparents, the only family he had left. He wanted to listen to Richie's records in his room and talk about life. He wanted to watch movies with Stan, too, and kiss Stan and be with Stan... But not here. He never asked to be here.

 

"Okay, Mike?" Stan dipped down to catch his eyes again. Mike blinked.

 

"Okay."

 

Ruth came in a couple minutes later, her hair in a messy ponytail. She lit a cigarette right after Stan told her they had to leave.

 

"I can give you two a ride back," Ruth offered, sitting on the windowsill. It didn't really do much anyways because she was still blowing her smoke towards the center of the room, where Mike and Stan stood with their backpacks zipped up and ready.

 

Stan stared at her. "We have to get back in time. And I don't want to bother you anymore," he said. She shrugged and looked out the window, peering over the fire escape.

 

"Thank you, Ruth," Mike said. She whipped her head towards him and cracked a smile.

 

"'Course." Then she threw her legs back into the room, standing up. "Oh, wait! I forgot to give you this." She jogged across the room to her shelf of records, sifting through them before picking one out. Then she handed it to Mike. "This," she tapped her fingers over the cover, "Is the best music in the world. It's the only shit that matters."

 

He looked down at the cover. It was bright red, with green lettering at the top. She pointed to it. "The record is signed by David Byrne himself. Ha! Can you believe it?"

 

Mike opened his mouth, gaping for a second before grinning. "Thank you," he managed. He felt like he was going to cry again, then reached out and pulled her into a huge. "Thank you," he mumbled again, the corners of his eyes stinging as he held the record close to his chest.

* * *

 

Stan told him stories on the train ride home. He talked about his dad and how he grew up in New York City, and how he'd always go to clubs and stuff before he met his mom. Mike wished he'd know that kinda stuff about his parents. All he knew was that they lived with hippies for a couple years.

 

When they got home, it was 7 p.m. Stan had used a payphone at the station to call the only person who had a car, Bill. Bill came quickly, riding in his dad's old Volvo.

 

They didn't say much to each other on the ride to Mike's house other than directions. Mike wished he could cry again.

 

"Wuh-we missed y-you two at pruh-prom," Bill said as they slowed to a stop. He parked the car and smiled at Stan, a hopeless kind of smile. Like he wasn't sure what else to do with his lips. Then he glanced at Mike. "Everything's guh-gonna t-turn out ok-kay, muh-Mike. Promise."

 

Mike didn't expect him to even speak to him, but he wished his words were true. If they weren't he'd officially have the worst life on the planet.

 

"Thank you for the ride," Stan said, grabbing his backpack and climbing out. Mike gave Bill a soft smile before getting out as well.

 

Stan stared at him over the car door. "Bill never breaks promises," he mumbled, looking down quickly as Mike shut the door.

Everything seemed off kilter when the two stepped into Mike's living room. The grandfather clock was ticking louder than usual. Richie was there, on Mike's grandma's couch. His leg was bouncing ten times faster than the clock ticking. That's ten bounces in a second, Stan counted each time it happened to make sure.

 

His grandmother was reading Catcher In The Rye,even though she never usually read. She'd found the book in Mike's room, probably.

 

She put it down and stared up at the two boys, standing instantly and gravitating as quickly as she could towards Mike. Her face didn't crack at first, until she stood in front of the boy. He had to be a couple inches taller than her. After amoment, her face screwed up.She wrapped her arms around him, hugging him close.

 

"Oh, my boy," she cried out, "My grandson..."

 

Richie stood and followed close behind her. Stan looked at him and smiled sadly. Richie gave a weak one back.

 

"You okay?" he whispered.

 

Stan shrugged. "Been better."

 

"How'd it feel to get away for a bit?"

 

Stan gave in, smiling, but moving to hug Richie. Richie hugged back. "It was nothing, Richie," he muttered into his neck. "Just felt like a day off."

 

Richie laughed softly. He pulled back and ruffled Stan's hair, grinning. "Guess we got a good topic to talk about at lunch, huh?"

 

Stan ducked back and glanced over at Mike, who was getting a stern talking to from his grandmother. He turned back to the tall boy. "Guess so, Rich."

 

Mike's grandfather had a heart attack, his grandmother said. He went to the hospital in the middle of the night and came back at 3 p.m. His wife told the kids that he left so soon because he missed the sheep. Mike thought it was really because he was the strongest man he knew.

 

He was in his room resting. Mike went in to talk to him. To apologize. Because he really was sorry.

 

"He was devastated," Stan said quietly to Richie while Mike was in the room. He looked down at his hands. "I feel like it's all my fault."

 

Mike's grandma sat down on the couch next to Stan. She reached out and grabbed Stan's hand, enveloping it in both of hers.

 

"It's not your fault... about his heart attack," she started. She smiled, her eyes twinkly. Maybe they were tears. She sniffed in and leaned towards Stan. "But, if you ever make my grandson go missing again, I'll beat your ass, you hear me?"

 

Richie laughed lightly to himself, and Stan glanced up at her, smiling slightly. "I'm sorry."

 

"Tell him to ask next time for me, m'kay?" she added.

 

Stan nodded. "Of course."

 

She turned to Richie and winked at him.

* * *

 

Mike closed the door of his grandparent's bedroom softly behind him after his grandpa let him in.

 

"Where the hell have you been?" Grandpa said, struggling to sit up so he could point angrily at Mike. Mike sat at the edge of the bed.

 

"I went to Boston with my-" he corrected himself. "With my friend Stan."

 

His grandfather sighed. "Boston? Really?"

 

Mike shrugged. "His aunt lives there."

 

The old man stared at Mike for a while. "Mike, lemme ask you somethin'..." Mike turned to him, breathing in heavily. He didn't like being in this room. There were pictures of his parents in here. "Did you leave for a good reason?" he asked.

 

Mike's breath hitched. He didn't want to say why. But he was waiting for an answer, and Mike wasn't allowed to ignore questions.

 

"Yes," he answered.

 

"Did you leave for a reason," he reworded, "Or a person?"

 

Mike looked at his lap. His chest was tight."I left for... I left for-" He stumbled over his words and he needed to cry again but he didn't think he's ever cried in front of his grandpa and he didn't know if he wanted to even though the small framed photo of his mom was staring right at him from the dresser and he didn't want to lie.

 

He held up a wrinkled hand. "It's fine, Michael. You don't gotta answer. Just think."

 

Mike blinked and he felt a tear slip out and down his cheek. He knew his grandfather would never hug him, but he wished he would.

 

He stayed on the edge of the bed for a while, until the sound of slow, soft snoring filled the room. He glanced at his grandfather, who was fast asleep, and pulled the blanket up farther on his chest. Then he left the room.

 

In the living room, Richie was making his grandma laugh at some impression. He stopped when he saw Mike and simply smiled, waiting for Mike to pass by the sofa to give him a hug.

 

Stan stood up, too, and hugged him too. So, it was group hug, Mike thought. He never had one of those, he didn't remember, even if he did.

 

"Is he gonna be okay?" Stan asked quietly.

 

Mike didn't really wanna talk about it, so he looked over his shoulder to his grandma. She was smiling to herself and running her fingers over the cover of the book she was reading earlier.

 

He looked back to Stan and nodded. Richie grinned and pulled the three of them together again, his arms just about long enough to reach around the boys'

backs.

 

"I love you guys," he mumbled, his voice full of affection and care.

 

Mike gripped the two boys tighter, and at that moment he fully comprehended the true feeling of love. The true feeling of people being close to him- both emotionally and physically.

**Author's Note:**

> sorry for taking so long 2 update 


End file.
